


Euphoria

by mythstoorfoot



Category: Heavy Rain
Genre: Crimes & Criminals, Drugs, F/M, Romance, Strong Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-03 00:21:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 53,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14556816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mythstoorfoot/pseuds/mythstoorfoot
Summary: When flawed profiler Norman Jayden discovers corruption within the FBI, he must fight for justice whilst struggling against his own personal demons: but the key to his redemption may lie with an enigmatic Agent Donahue. Contains strong language and drugs.





	1. Melancholy

**Author's Note:**

> Euphoria is a long, winding fic I wrote over the span of many years. It's about justice and corruption, hope and hysteria, love and despair - but at its heart it's mainly about a man and a woman. This was my attempt to write a romance between Noman and an OC that didn't make me want to punch a wall, and you'll have to read on to pass your judgement on me for that.
> 
> I present it to you here in its entirety, so you can read it as it was meant to be read. I hope you enjoy.

He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster.

And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.

\- Friedrich Nietzsche

 

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," - that is all

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

\- From 'Ode on a Grecian Urn' by John Keats

 

Wednesday

1:47 am

.

Norman Jayden was awake again.

His apartment was quiet and still but outside a gale raged, battering the helpless windows with undeserved ferocity.

The woman in his bed remained sound asleep and the sheets covered her naked form, concealing her secrets from him. He was reclining in the armchair across the room, watching her through lidded eyes, a bottle of vodka in his hand.

She had black hair, poker-straight. Her cherry lips were parted invitingly and smeared with the faded stain of lipstick.

He had first met her only a few hours ago in a loud and garish nightclub. She had smiled and laughed and he had soon determined she was the type to happily accept an invitation of  _let's go somewhere a little more quiet_ from a random stranger. He had been right, of course. Norman was an excellent judge of character.

They had tumbled into his apartment, tongue to tongue and lips to neck and hands everywhere. The bed had endured their sudden, rude disturbance as he flung her down upon the mattress and ravished her with frenzied kisses. Their clothes were shed as quickly as their pretences and then she had whimpered and moaned under the ministrations his hands offered. It was always this way: rushed and fervent and fiery. He liked it. It served as the perfect distraction.

_Distraction_. That was his holy grail, the treasure he was relentlessly hunting for. Something, anything to divert his thoughts from… well. In truth, his life was a game of cat and mouse. He spent his time chasing down criminals or fleeing from his memories, but either way the thin line between hunter and hunted was always obscured.

A pair of black sunglasses lay innocently on the tabletop some way from him. Norman caught sight of them glinting with the city lights from the window and instantly heard the unmistakable rustling of leaves along with bizarre, impossible flashes of sunlight. His brows knitted.  _Why are you so damn immersive?_ He stared down his foe but the lenses merely gazed back at him unblinkingly. Like sunken eye sockets, veiled in shadow.

Hidden in the depths of his subconscious he had a hypothesis which only dared to rear its head when he was in a state like this, intoxicated and lost in limbo somewhere between waking and sleeping.  _ARI is so inescapably engaging because they want it to be. They designed the fucking thing, didn't they? And Triptocaine is as addictive as herion, maybe even more so, because they need to keep you hooked…_ He shook his head like an old dog so the thoughts would go away. Ideas like that lead to dangerous places.

He cast his sight desperately around the apartment - anywhere but on those glasses. It settled once more upon his sleeping guest, and the vision of her slowed his anxious heartbeat somewhat. He raised the vodka bottle to his lips and drank hastily.  _Much better._

But his mercurial thoughts inevitably drifted away again as his eyes roved over her body. Perhaps some part of him felt a degree of guilt, he mused as he tasted the clear spirit. She seemed like a nice enough girl. He remembered she had whispered her name into his ear with her hot breath and her heavenly mouth suckling his collar… Tiffany or Tracey or Tess. He hadn't paid that much attention to what she was saying.

And in the morning he would cast her off without a second glance.

Jayden was a regular to bars of the city and they were accustomed to his well-honed routine. Stand in the corner, brooding and mysterious, until a victim had been picked out. A different girl every night. But that wasn't necessarily a bad thing and it didn't necessarily make him a bad person, because those girls knew what they were getting themselves into when they chose to hang around places like that wearing skirts that short with a smile plastered to their faces and hunger in their eyes.

He sighed uneasily. They were all adults, all prepared and, goddamnit,  _willing_  for one-night stands. Were promises made in the flickering shadows, between those burning sheets? No. No, he wasn't guilty of anything. He gave them exactly what they were looking for and asked for nothing in return but a single night of ecstasy. And companionship.

The woman slept on serenely. They always did, but he often awoke in the early hours of the morning. It was his dreams that betrayed him.

_I've got it under control. I'm doing fine._ In the afternoon it was easier, when the sun was bright and looming, but when he slept his demons would come out to play.

That's why he couldn't be alone; why he needed a warm body to hold.

And the women were good for him. Alcohol was good too. He had tried so many things to shroud his mind and make him forget,  _so many things_. Triptocaine was of course the best but -  _no. Enough of that._ The liquor bottle would work just as well.

He took another sip and winced as the fluid burnt his throat. It was a pleasurable burn, a forceful angry burn ordering his brain to take the night off.

Norman remained in the armchair for a while longer. He could still hear the wind whistling violently outside. He began to feel his consciousness melting away and knew sleep would come soon, a merciful blessing. Placing the vodka on the nearest flat surface he could find, he made his way to the bed and lay down, shifting close to the heat that radiated from the figure resting there.

From that angle, facing away from him, she appeared flawless and doll-like. Jayden tenderly swept back a strand of ebony hair from her face, feeling the glossy strands with hushed curiosity.

He was a fickle lover, full of desire and compassion but only during the black sincerity of night. In the day it was all too much and these divine women were no longer goddesses but pointless irritations buzzing in his ear, so they were discarded like dreams. In the daylight they served him no purpose.  _There must always be purpose._

After a time he wrapped his arms around the girl's waist and buried his head into the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent of oranges and cigarettes. Sleep came easily.

_I_ _'m the lost cause and she's my saviour. At least for tonight._


	2. Curiosity

Wednesday

10:26 am

.

Agent Jayden sat in his office reading through the case file which had been placed on his desk earlier that day, a mug of steaming coffee at his side. His eyes were slightly glazed over as he shifted in his chair: he wasn't a morning person.

He took another sip of the bland beverage and grimaced in distaste.  _At least it's warm._ Returning to his file, he turned the page, enjoying its rough surface and the inexplicably reassuring scent of aged paper. He found a simple sort of pleasure in moments like this, when he could hold something concrete and substantial in his grasp. It reminded him of better times.

The room was lit by the soothing orange glow of morning sunlight. Time seemed lazy here. Dust particles floated upwards at leisure and the only sound was the muffled hum of administrative life that drifted in from beyond the office.

After an indeterminate amount of time there came a firm knocking at the door, shattering the stillness. Jayden lifted up his head.

"Come on in."

The sound of the door swinging open was accompanied by the squeak of leather shoes. Norman stood up to see his superior, Forrester, a greying man of few words and fewer pleasantries, followed by an unfamiliar woman. As soon as his eyes laid upon her, Norman felt an unsettling twinge in the pit of his stomach as if something terrible was going to happen and he had absolutely no way of stopping it.

"Jayden, this is Agent Donahue," drawled Forrester, gesturing vaguely with his hands whilst his eyes flickered back and forth between the pair. "She's been transferred to D.C. from Chicago. She'll be your partner for the duration of her stay here. I presume you have no objections."

_Only two months after the OK case was filed away, and they're already back to keeping tabs on me._

The woman held out her hand to shake and Norman took it. She was tall, almost as tall as him, with a faint smile on her face and auburn hair and eyes that he couldn't quite tell the colour of, but it would be rude to stare. She was beautiful.  _Too beautiful for a grimy job like this._ Her handshake was gently assertive.

"It's an honour to meet the man who found the Origami Killer." Soft and creamy with a strange edge, her voice was like a downy pillow weighted with gravel. She had a typical Midwestern accent.

"Thank you," replied Jayden.  _Yeah, it sure sucks that he had to murder so many kids first, but thanks anyways._

She appeared to notice the look on his face and her eyebrows furrowed. "I didn't mean -"

Norman cut her off. "No, it's fine." He withdrew his hand and placed it in his jacket pocket.

Forrester moved past them to survey the vacant office space. "I'll have another desk brought in here," he determined after a moment's thought. The elder man turned back to Donahue and nodded conclusively. "Well, I'll let you acquaint yourself with HQ. Agent Jayden can show you around." With that he took his leave, the door gaping in his wake.

The agents stood awkwardly for a second until Norman suggested a tour of the building, which Donahue politely accepted. They spent the next few minutes acting out the trite pantomime performance of two colleagues who would inevitably grow close given time but were, for now, nothing more than strangers. Jayden pointed out the washrooms, conference rooms, interrogation rooms, and any other rooms he could think of; Agent Donahue paid sufficient attention and smiled and nodded in all the right places.

Norman hadn't yet had an opportunity to properly evaluate his new associate, so he was mildly pleased when, as they passed the third office in a row, she spoke up.

"I hope I'm not too much of an inconvenience."

He shook his head, glancing to his right at the woman walking beside him. "I know how the Bureau can be, transferring agents any which way without a moment's warning. I guess it's not exactly ideal for you either." He stopped abruptly and motioned towards a large brightly-lit area past a set of double doors, which was filled with tables and busy with activity. "And here's the cafeteria. The food's terrible but the coffee is guaranteed to give you a kick straight into next week."

Donahue smiled. "Knowing where to get a caffeine fix: that's all the direction I need. I'm sure I'll be able to find my way around from here."

"Alright," Norman said. "I don't know if I could've taken another whitewashed corridor anyway."  _You're a real comedian, Norm._

A partial smile lingered on the woman's face, as did her eyes upon Jayden. "How about we grab something to drink before getting to work? You know, give us a chance to have some heartfelt bonding before we try out the whole 'partners' thing."

Jayden crossed his arms.  _Right. Partners. "_ Sure."

"But let's find somewhere a little more quiet," Donahue remarked as she peered through the doors to the communal eatery.

Norman recommended a nearby café which overlooked Pershing Park. After a ten minute walk they'd procured their cappuccinos and then found a quiet little spot secluded from the rest of the frantic world by a shield of tawny foliage. It was winter in Washington and the park was filled with decay that was morbidly captivating: bare trees covered in frost and the last desperate signs of greenery. They sat at a picnic table. As Donahue seated herself, Jayden caught a glimpse of the alabaster flesh of her thigh underneath her trench coat. It stirred something primal and urgent within him, reminding him of the previous night and a mewling girl with black hair spread across silken sheets, but he quickly suppressed the emotion.  _Don't make things complicated, Norman._

There was a bitter breeze, and the sky was painted with hues of steely grey, the remains of the storm which had been so brutal only hours before. But through the clouds the sun offered its warmth, hiding just out of sight, lighting the day with a startling brilliance that seemed to be intensified by the overcast heavens.

All in all it was a glorious weather, thought Jayden; not glorious in the traditional sense but sharp and bright and brisk and filled with anticipation.

Agent Donahue sat across from him, slender fingers wrapped around the coffee cup that was resting against her lips. Out in the light of the sun there was something about her appearance that almost appeared to radiate.  _Why do the most beautiful of women always insist upon the worst career choices?_ The wind swept her hair against milky skin. Her eyes, staring past him towards the centre of the park, simmered with something that had not been present before, and yet still he could not quite pinpoint their colour. They seemed like tumultuous lagoons.

Teasing her mouth was the shadow of a smile. To the young man it seemed filled with melancholy.

After a moment the women noticed that he was scrutinizing her and calmly met his gaze. Norman dropped his eyes and cleared his throat before looking up once again. "What's your name?"

A slight grin. "You've forgotten already?"

"Yeah, I forgot already. I meant your  _name_  name."

"It's Melissa. Melissa Donahue."

_Melissa means… honey bee, from the Greek word for honey._ "That's pretty. Not a very suitable name for a tough FBI agent."

She took a sip of her coffee, pensive, and then smirked. "Like Norman Jayden is any better."

"Hey now, no need to be cruel." He rested his elbows upon the wooden surface of the picnic table and templed his fingers. "So, why exactly did you get sent off from scenic Chicago to grace Washington, Melissa?"

"Using my first name to put me at ease and to add a sense of sincerity to your words." She was pretending to be impressed. "That's very nice. Good going."

"Thanks, I try."

Donahue chuckled to herself, and her laughter was like molten sugar in Norman's ear. "I wish I knew why they transferred me. They told me I'd be assisting you and to pack up my bags, and a day later I was on the flight over. Maybe they thought you needed a little help."

"I'd take that as an insult, but you're probably right. I had a chance to look over my latest case this morning - well,  _our_  latest case."

The woman leaned forward expectantly.

Jayden licked his lips and searched for the right words. "About a week ago, the police intercepted a shipment of drugs stashed on a tanker coming all the way from China. There's a furious dealer out there somewhere losing a load of money, but so far our leads to him are few and far between. We'll have our work cut out for us."

Melissa caught his gaze. "I'm sure we'll find him. After all, you're one of the FBI's finest."

Norman closed his eyes abruptly.  _Shit, I'm so far from it… if you only knew._  Almost without realising, he began to snake his hand into his suit pocket, where his fingers brushed against a small tube that was frosty and revitalizing to the touch. He opened his eyes again and the park was filled with a leafy green forest basking in autumn light. When he blinked rapidly, apprehensively, it was gradually returned to dying trees and icicles.

"Why are you doing that?" Melissa stared at him with intensity written over her face. "Why do you keep reaching your hand into your pocket? You did it before."

_Oh good fuck, she's already profiling me._ Jayden tried to direct his vision towards her but seemed unable to focus, and she appeared as a indistinct, hazy form circled by a halo of sunlight. "Look, maybe it's none of your business, alright?" he snapped, his voice tinged with a hint of desperation. Norman pinched the bridge of his nose. When he glanced up his eyesight had returned.  _It's okay, everything's okay._ He hoped it was the biting wind that was causing him to tremble.

Donahue was watching him warily, tracing circles into the side of her coffee cup.

"I'm sorry… I didn't mean that," the agent muttered. "I'm just tired." He fished into his jacket and retrieved a pair of black sunglasses, which he placed in the centre of the table. "This is what I was I was checking my pocket for." Norman was unsure as to whether he was lying or telling the truth. "They're expensive and rather vital, so you'll forgive me if I'm sometimes a little obsessive about keeping an eye on them."

The glasses shone invitingly. The woman glanced at him as if she was asking permission. Norman nodded, so she picked them up delicately, rotating them in her grasp and watching the light bounce off their opaque surface with deep interest. Along the side of the frame, she picked out the letters ARI with her fingertips. "Ah, Added Reality Interface. I've heard rumours about these prototypes."

"Really?" Jayden raised his eyebrows. "What kinds of rumours?"

"I've heard they can help an agent catch twice as many criminals in half the time… so this is the secret to your success, Agent Jayden."

Norman was unsure how to respond. He held out his palm to take the lenses back from her and hastily deposited them into his pocket. A particular feeling of relief washed over him, a feeling he knew was foolish and uncalled for.  _You need to get a hold of yourself._

The breeze whipped up momentarily and Donahue drew her trench coat tighter around herself. "We should probably get back to Headquarters soon, take a look at that case," she said. Unexpectedly, something to her left caught her eye, and she turned her head to look out across the park. Two children, a boy and a younger girl, had arrived and were playing an energetic game of tag amongst the bushes and tree trunks. The boy caught his sister around the waist and her gleeful laughter rang out clearly.

Jayden noted that a genuine smile had spread across Melissa's lips. He could see now, so plainly that he wondered how he'd missed it before, her eyes shining a deep lustrous ochre reminiscent of amber.

Some way from them, a man caught up with the frolicking children. He ruffled the boy's hair and then proceeded to hoist up the giggling girl. His mouth was moving animatedly but Jayden couldn't make out what he was saying. His daughter shrieked and laughed in excitement, bouncing up and down as she was placed upon his shoulders. The man smiled and continued on with his children, until all three had disappeared from sight behind the hedgerow.

When Norman returned his gaze to the woman sitting opposite him, she was staring vacantly into her coffee. The glimmer had left her eyes.

"Melissa?"

She looked up. Before he had a chance to speak, she had was sliding out from under the table and getting to her feet. "I'm going back to HQ. I'll see you there." Her voice was like the impassive drone of cars in the distance. "Thank you, Jayden," she added before turning and walking briskly in the other direction, out of the park. Norman was left sitting alone, surrounded by barren trees.

He exhaled deeply and clasped his hands.  _What the hell was that?_ Running a hand through his hair, he considered what he'd been able to ascertain so far. Melissa Donahue was, by all appearances, a perfectly competent agent who now also happened to be his new partner. A partner was somebody you needed to  _trust unconditionally_. She seemed nice enough, if a little fragile, but Norman knew he had a lot to learn before he would be able to form an accurate impression.  _There's always more under the surface._

But she really was beautiful, in a strange fragile way. He could picture the curved dip of her throat and her pale lips.  _A flash of skin…_ That particular thought caused Jayden to moan and rub his eyes with the palms of his hands.  _No, she's not another one of those girls. This is not a woman to start lusting after._

Once he had regained his composure, the young man shook his sleeve and glanced at his wristwatch. It read 11:45. He checked his pockets and then thought about getting back to the office.

The sun remained benevolent in the heavens, warming him, unseen behind a mask of dismal clouds.


	3. Suspicion

Wednesday

12:13 pm

.

Upon returning to the FBI Headquarters, navigating the Bureau's many floors and hallways, and finally arriving once again at his office, Agent Jayden discovered two things: firstly, that Forrester had kept his word and had another desk relocated to the room, and secondly that Agent Donahue was sitting at it. She was cross-legged, her head resting in her right palm with her elbow balanced on the desk. Her attention was focused on the case file spread across the otherwise clear tabletop. Norman noted, a little distractedly, that her trench coat had been removed and was now folded unevenly over the back of her chair, revealing bare legs offset by a knee-length skirt. As he shut the door behind him she raised her head. Holding up the sandy-coloured folder, the woman waved it in his direction.

"You were right. This is going to be a tough case." A warm glint had returned to her gaze since he had last seen her, although her smile was still noticeably absent, resulting in a cautiously guarded expression.

_So we're not going to discuss your little disappearing act back there? Oh, okay, fine then. Straight to business_. "The man we're looking for," Jayden clarified as he crossed the room, "could be one of virtually hundreds of drug dealers in the area. Each one of them would step over their own mother for the chance to purchase high-quality Asian narcotics and then sell them on at exorbitant prices to every desperate customer along the East Coast." Norman stopped in front of Melissa's desk. "What's more, so far all of the workers on the tanker claim to have had no idea that the drugs were being smuggled. Unless we can scare them into talking, I doubt we'll be getting much out of them. Thoughts?"

Donahue's eyes were downcast, lost in deliberation. She chewed on a nail for several moments before answering. "We need to know which local dealers have connections in China."

"There's an agent stationed in Beijing who could help us, but currently they're heavily involved in a separate case. Unfortunately, we've no way of knowing how long until we can request assistance." Norman perched himself on the edge of the desk and crossed his arms.

Rifling through the yellowed pages, Melissa ran her index finger down an orderly paragraph of text. "The drug analysis hasn't revealed anything? No impurities we could use to trace the heroin to a certain supplier?"

"Nothing. Not yet."

The woman returned to the file.  _Well, her mind seems to be fully functional. That's encouraging._  As Jayden took in her shape, her curves and edges, all coiled into one fascinating form on the chair, he unexpectedly recalled a proposal he had considered earlier that morning. His head tilted slightly. "There is… oneperson we could look to for help. His name's David Kellen, an ex-dealer we apprehended a while back. He traded in a jail sentence to act as our unofficial informant, telling us all about his dealer buddies and helping to dismantle a drug cartel in the process. He'll probably be able to give us some information as to where we can start looking."

Melissa's eyes widened. In the afternoon sunlight they shone secrets Norman could not read. "You got a criminal out of jail time so they could give you tip-offs?"

"I like to think of it as a necessary evil."  _Always lying to yourself to make things better, aren't you?_  Jayden shifted uncomfortably and began to fiddle with the cuffs of his ash grey suit. "Besides, he's an honest-to-goodness law abiding citizen now."  _So there's hope for all of us. Never too late to turn back._

"No, you don't need to explain yourself to me." She was shaking her head as she rose to her feet, and that delicate smile had returned. "Sometimes instinct is better than all the red tape they wrap around us."

Norman couldn't help but stare. The sun had broken free of its gloomy constraints and through the window came streaming rays of iridescent radiance, lighting the woman in front of him like a Renaissance painting. Her lips were full; her cheeks flushed, her short hair glowing. He could almost feel her splendour spreading out towards him. She was so much more real, more  _alive_ , than the steel cabinets and frail blinds and everything within that grey fortress. Jayden was gripped by the strongest urge to reach out and touch her, to close the hollow and meaningless space between them.

_No, stop it, this is wrong, this is stupid._

Norman stood up abruptly and paced over to his own desk. He leaned his palms against the mahogany surface, bowed his head and winced his eyes closed.  _You've know this woman for what, five minutes, and you're already fantasizing about her? You're pathetic._ The young man hoped he was imagining the trembling in his fingers. He was acutely, excruciatingly aware of how easy it would be to stretch into his pocket and  _just inhale_.

"Jayden?" The word came swimming to him as though underwater.

Taking a single deep shuddering breath, he spun back around to face his partner. It appeared that the sun had hidden once again behind its desolate screen, because the room had been restored to muted colours - to murkiness. Melissa stood before him, a hand on her hip and the faintest hint of concern shadowing her features.  _Just any other woman._

"So we're agreed?" Norman asked softly. "We'll visit David Kellen?"  _Please, please don't make anything of this. Please just accept._

The female agent was frozen. Was Norman hallucinating, or was she cross-examining him with that hawkish share? Eventually, after the longest instant, she nodded her head.

Norman sighed and slipped a hand into his jacket, extracting a pair of glasses and positioning them gratefully across his welcoming eyes. Instantaneously his vision was flooded with a cold, calculating blue. After easing his right hand into a glossy black glove he began twisting and brushing the air, deftly manipulating his virtual system to locate the specific file he desired. In under a minute it was his.

"Norman?" Melissa's voice was hushed.

The man removed the shaded lenses. "Just finding Kellen's address. Did you know these things can store a supercomputer's worth of data?"

Donahue was leaning over his desk, her finger tapping at a yellow post-it note stuck to the side of his computer screen. "You had it written down right here." The scrap was a little crumpled, and its corners were curled. Across it Norman could just make out the address he had found moments before, preceded by the words  _D. Kellen_ ,scrawled in his own chaotic script.

He felt an odd heat along his spine, travelling up to his hairline. "Oh, I guess I just forgot. That's a pretty untidy desk."  _Why would I look at a sickly bit of paper when I can bathe the world in icy blue?_  Before anything more could be said the agent headed for the door, pushing it open with his shoulder. "Ready to leave?"

They made their way to Jayden's car under the watch of an oppressively murky sky. Melissa slid into the passenger seat as though it was the easiest thing in the world, but for Norman it was a surreal occurrence to be sitting beside such a woman. He couldn't remember the last time he had had  _anybody_  in his Ford Taurus, let alone this sudden intrusion into his life.

Starting up the engine, the young agent manoeuvred the car out onto the main road running past HQ. The street was thrumming with traffic and the dull roar of routine, mirroring the dreary heavens above. Jayden thought ahead to the address they would be visiting as he worked the steering wheel into a right turn.  _David… it's been a while._ Norman hoped he'd have at least some information to offer them, otherwise the investigation would be going nowhere fast.  _And I hate being stuck in limbo._

Outside of the car, buildings rushed by, craning overhead like great glass and concrete sentinels. On the sidewalk pedestrians were bundled up against the wind, determined expressions on determined faces lost in an urban jungle.

"How're you finding the city?" Norman asked, allowed himself a quick glance to the woman seated to his right.

Donahue peeled her eyes away from the side window. "It's smaller than I remember from last time I visited. So far I like it, if only because I could see the White House on my way to work this morning. Plus it's warmer than Chicago." She shrugged her shoulders non-committally. "But I've only been here a few days."

Jayden felt a smile creeping along his jaw. "You'll fit right in. The only problem with Washington is the rain."  _Cold, dismal rain. When you see so much of it, it begins to define your life._

They came to a halt at an intersection. Norman drummed his fingers against the wheel, eyeing the scarlet stoplight impatiently.

"So, Jayden. How'd you join the FBI in the first place?"

The young man immediately calmed his hands: his azure gaze stared at something ambiguous, far past the windscreen. "I always knew I wanted to stop the bad guys. At college I studied Criminal Justice, and… I applied to the Bureau as soon as I'd got the necessary experience."

The lights changed. Norman pressed his foot down, urging the car ahead with unwarranted viciousness. As the wheels skidded against the tarmac, screeching in protest, he realised what he was doing and eased back on the accelerator. "How about you?" he countered, his pale eyes flickering nervously as he continued on at a more tolerable speed.

"Are you sure you can handle this beast?" She was smiling.

Norman tried but failed to laugh.  _Haha, I get it, it's funny because I drive an old sedan._

Melissa placed her hands in her lap. Out of the corner of his eye the young man could see her scratching absent-mindedly at her pale fingers. "I actually trained as a lawyer, initially. I did well and got a junior position at one of the largest law firms in Chicago." Her tone of voice sounded more surprised than smug.

"But that didn't work out?" Norman prompted.

She fell silent. For a moment the car was filled with static and a low rumble from beyond its doors. "I was naïve. I thought being a lawyer would mean bringing justice to the world, but I ended up dealing with greedy divorcees, with trying to shorten the sentences of criminals who deserved to be locked up. I hated what I was doing, so I quit. Applied to the FBI on impulse, and here I am."

Jayden looked across at her: the woman's chest was rising and then falling in calm inhalations as she watched the cityscape roll past. There was wonder in the curve of her collar bone, the warmth dusting her cheeks, the sheen that covered her pastel skin.  _Can you comprehend how beautiful you are?_ He tore his eyes away to concentrate on the road, and observed that the city around them was transforming. From impressive and imposing office blocks it was diminishing to run-down flats; squashed, misshapen; and dark electricity cables withering under the glare of the unyielding clouds.

"We're nearly there."

Donahue adjusted the belt of her trench coat. "Is there anything vitally important I need to know about Mr Kellen before I meet him?"

"Um… can't think of anything in particular." Norman steered the vehicle into a narrow lane where the road was potholed and the buildings seemed to be covered in a fine layer of grime.  _Lovely neighbourhood._ "Whatever he did in his past, he's made up for it. He proved his worth to us."

Melissa eyed him closely. "I'm sure."

The Ford edged past several decrepit-looking bungalows, crawling up onto the pavement. "Number 247. That's the one." Norman brought the car to a stop and killed the engine. As he got up, slamming his door shut, Donahue exited regally, taking in the homestead overlooking them with several long sweeps of her golden eyes.

The two agents strode to the front door together, their footsteps falling united, both of their faces set forward. One was clad in a warm brown coat, her feathery hair brushing its collar, her walk brisk with something unarguably feminine buried underneath; the other wore a granite-grey suit and held fortitude upon his face as he covertly slipped a finger into his jacket pocket. Just from their behaviour together they seemed to compliment each other unknowingly, to fill the other's cracks whilst giving their companion the liberty to bloom with their own individual strengths. There was firmness and yet versatility.

An onlooker might have thought they'd been partners for years, had they laid eyes upon the pair in that single moment. They reached the house: Melissa folded her arms whilst Norman stood on the threshold and knocked solidly on the door. He rocked on his heels, templing his fingers, as they waited. On the air hung a growing humidity.

When the entrance was eventually opened just a sliver, the security chain still clinging to its latch, it revealed a petite woman with long black hair and a small mouth.

"Yes?" Her voice was authoritative, unbefitting her undersized figure.

"Good afternoon, Mrs Kellen. I'm Agent Jayden of the FBI and this is my partner, Agent Donahue. We're here to speak to your husband. Is he home?"

The woman looked past them apprehensively. "Yes… he is. Come in." She didn't sound especially happy about the prospect.

There was the sound of rattling, and then the door swung open fully to beckon them in. As they stepped inside Norman noticed slightly off-colour walls and stacks of paper on the coffee table; a television in the corner of the living room was inaudibly broadcasting what appeared to be, as far as he could tell from the longing gazes and silent mouthing, a melodrama. The scent of boiling pasta was vaguely discernable.

"David's this way," their escort said, leading them into an adjoining room that was something of a makeshift office. "Honey, you have visitors."

Reclining in a large burgundy armchair was a gruff, greying man with a five o'clock shadow and a hardback book in his substantial grasp. A pair of glasses rested on the tip of his nose and made him look distinctly  _not_  like a felon. Jayden took a glimpse at Melissa and smiled at the subtle way her eyebrows raised.  _Not much of a drug dealer, is he?_

The bear of a man placed the book on the floor to his left and broke into a grin. "Agent Jayden! Isn't this a pleasant surprise. Please, sit down, both of you." Donahue positioned herself in the second armchair whilst Mrs Kellen fetched an extra seat for Norman, after which she busied herself with making drinks. Once both agents were accommodated and given glasses full of sparkling beverage, David clapped his hands together heartily.

"Well, I certainly wasn't expecting your visit, Jayden, but it's doubly surprising to see you accompanied by this radiant vision." He cast his bespectacled sight towards Melissa.

"My name is Agent Donahue, Mr Kellen. I'm Jayden's partner. We're here to ask you a few questions pertaining to a recent case."

The older man chuckled to himself. "Yes, and you give him a run for his money, I can tell. Of course: ask me anything you wish. As delicious as it may be, I'm sure you came here for more than just my wife's lemonade."

Norman leaned forward slightly in his chair. "David, we know there's a dealer in the city shipping heroin from China. We need to find them and put a stop to it, but we're a little stuck for leads right now. To be frank, we could really use your help."

Expressionlessly, Kellen stood up, shut the study door, and then returned to his seat. "My wife shouldn't hear this," he clarified, his voice now remarkably gentle. "She doesn't need to be reminded about… you know." He coughed and interlaced his fingers on his lap. "What have you discovered so far?"

"Very little. Whoever's behind the operation has been very careful. The tanker the drugs were transported on is an entirely legal goods vessel; so the heroin was hidden covertly and then the tracks were covered spotlessly. Everyone's lips are sealed."

David nodded his head slowly. "How much heroin?"

"About 100 kilograms, I believe."

"Now then," the gentleman said, "that's a serious venture. Your culprit is clearly not a home-grown drugs dealer. This may be the work of a cartel. But you already knew this, of course. Isn't there a way you hot-shot FBI agents can cross-reference all your data and assess which dealers are most likely to be responsible?"

"Well yes, but that still leaves us with at least a hundred suspects. So unless we individually trawl through every dealer on record, no."  _Believe me, I tried to uncover connections. What ARI can't find isn't worth knowing._

Kellen pinched his lips together. "In that case, I suggest you try to find other places where these drugs might have been stashed. The more you find, the more likely it becomes that you'll stumble upon some evidence." He peered at Norman from over his glasses. "If I was hiding shipments of heroin of that size in Washington, I'd do so in the abandoned factories around the D.C. Docks. Look closely: those drugs will be well-hidden if they're there."

Norman mentally digested the information. "Thank you. You're invaluable as always."

Kellen removed his lenses and began to clean them on his sweater. "You're welcome, Jayden. But if you need to contact me again, please do so in a less conspicuous manner. I don't want any dealers cottoning onto my involvement with the authorities, recognising who I am, and promptly coming after me. As you can imagine, there's something of a bounty on my head." His eyes were cast upon the carpeted floor. "You know, when the FBI caught me, it really couldn't have come at a better time. My daughter, Natalie, was just a baby. I realised that I didn't want her to grow up in such a fearful environment, with a father who preyed off others for a living, so I took the opportunity and left the industry. This was a decision to protect my family, you see." The man looked up to pierce the agents with a steely gaze, and for a split instant the coldness and severity reflected there – so at odds with his warm exterior – meant Norman could almost see something of a powerful drug dealer within David Kellen. "I don't want anything to happen to jeopardise that safety."

"Of course not," Jayden replied, trying to control the sudden and agitated shaking in his fingertips.  _Note to self: don't piss off ex-convicts, even ones you're on friendly terms with._

At that moment the study door flung open, and in came bounding a small child with an eager smile and jet black hair just like her mother.

"Natalie!" Kellen boomed. His tone of voice was instantly uplifted as he wrapped her miniature body in a clumsy embrace.

Norman looked awkwardly away whilst the father and daughter shared their intimate moment. He glanced towards his partner to see her staring at him so piercingly, so intently, that he couldn't help but imagine something terrible had somehow happened.

"We're done here, right Jayden?" She was quietly raving, her voice hoarse and insistent. "We can leave?"

"Yeah… I guess we're done for now." The young man was just a little shocked by her sudden change in temperament. And yet, there was also something morosely enthralling about her fleeting insanity and the way her amber eyes fluttered, exotic birds caged in in bars of flesh.

"Good then. Alright. I'll meet you back at the car," she rambled, standing up and offering a brusque farewell to the room in general before leaving the office with a confused flurry.

The remaining agent rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously.  _That's the second time in as many hours she's run away like a frightened rabbit. Maybe this agent isn't as well-balanced as I first presumed._ "Well, I should be going too. Thanks for your help, David. And your hospitality, and your lemonade." As he headed for the door, Norman smiled in a bittersweet sort of way at the girl sitting blissfully in her father's lap, feet swinging against his thighs.

_I sure hope your daddy gives you the future you deserve._

Perhaps it was the tremors still present in his hands, the particular sunny grin of that young child, or  _the remnant of the look on Melissa's face_ \- but as he turned to depart Norman lost his balance, stumbling. He caught himself on the door frame and was immediately aware of a painful grappling at his heart. Something had been lost,  _something important_. He stared at the ground behind him and saw to his horror, rolling away from him, taunting him, a small sapphire vial.

Faster than he'd thought he was capable of moving, Jayden lurched towards the streak of blue. But not fast enough: the fully-grown man was beaten to his prize by a tiny hand. As Norman crawled upon his knees, his mouth agape, Kellen's daughter beamed at him with the bottle of Triptocaine in her innocent clutches.

"Bring it to me, Natalie darling," bid her father. She could not hear the rigid edge to his voice but Norman did and was overcome by waves of revulsion, his mind swiftly dissolving into a mass of dread. There was no coherent thought.

Once the package had been delivered - unwillingly, because its young deliverer was lured by its twinkling hues - David kissed the child on the nose and sent her affectionately from the room. This being done, he repositioned his spectacles and inspected the tube in his thick fingers, spinning it in the light. "Triptocaine," he concluded after several moment's consideration.

Norman attempted to wrestle with words, but no words came.

Knitting his brows, the older man saw how the agent before him was still kneeling forlornly upon the carpeted floor, incapable of action. He was a shadow of the composed man of only seconds earlier. Had the drug done this to him?

"Norman." Kellen spoke slowly and very, very purposefully. "What are you doing with something like this?"

_I… I wish I knew. Goddamnit, fuck, fuck it._

"This is an extremely rare drug, Norman. I'm sure it would feel much more at home in the pocket of an addict than a responsible FBI agent."

"Well, I am an agent," blurted Jayden, scrambling to his feet. "I'm not an addict. I'm a fucking profiler!"

The grey bear narrowed his eyes. "Where did you get this from?"

"The Bureau. From them, to help things. The FBI gave it to me." He was grasping his right wrist with so much force that it was turning white.  _Gotta stop these spasms_. The floor was beginning to tilt under his feet.

"From the FBI?" said Kellen. The room reverberated with icy stillness. "Jayden, you're not thinking clearly. Whoever sells this drug… well, it's a derivative of heroin, so it numbs pain. There are hundreds of other drugs which can do that in similar ways. But Triptocaine is also synthesized to be incredibly addictive. I mean, your employers just wouldn't give this to you. The people that produce this drug produce it precisely  _for its addictive qualities_."

Lunging forward, Norman seized the vial from David's hands in a fit of ire and passion and distrust.  _Fuck it, I need that bottle_. He stepped back, breathing raggedly, with his paradise, his life line, held in front of his heart. His hand was gripping it as tightly as it could.

"I know how dangerous drugs can be, better than most people." There seemed to be an infinite sadness in the grizzled man's muted tone. "Be careful, Jayden."

The young man stormed from that room and that house without saying a parting word. Once outside he leaned against the tediously decaying wall, shutting his eyes and allowing imaginings to overcome him. His thoughts were rampant with a sickening uncertainty of  _what the fuck did I just hear?_ and  _I just need to calm down_.

He gazed at the blindingly blue tube in his palm. In another universe he would take the powder, it would be gasped feverishly all the way up his nasal cavity, turquoise stars would burst behind his eye sockets; but for now that would remain nothing more than a fantasy. He mournfully returned the Triptocaine to his jacket pocket.

_No. Not today._

Norman took a glance at the ever-darkening sky and, shivering with something that wasn't quite the breeze, returned at length to the waiting car.


	4. Enthusiasm

Thursday

9:51 am

.

The clouds had grown more menacing overnight and by the next day all potential of another sun-drenched morning had been obliterated.  _Just a few bright hours, is that too much to ask?_  But as always the weather gods were not in a gracious mood.

The growing moisture in the air, forewarning a storm, did nothing to placate Norman's unease. He had felt a nagging sense of agitation ever since visiting David Kellen the previous day, and it had pursued him like a shadow, lingering long after he'd gone home for the evening and attempted to wash it away with vodka. It was weaker the next morning, but that made it worse somehow: in the same way tiny mosquitoes, almost imperceptible in their smallness, could be vastly more frustrating than their larger brothers.

Jayden, languishing in his office, had been trying to concentrate on the heroin case for at least half an hour, but vague irritations kept buzzing in his ear. Initially there was an insecurity of self, a confidence so tentative that a gust of wind could send it tumbling.  _You're losing your edge, Norman. Why didn't you think of searching the city for more drugs? The docks are an obvious place to look. Do you need the approval of ex-dealers now before doing your job?_

Next came a burrowing apprehension within his gut that all of his sinister secrets could at any time escape, spilling out of him like a thick black tar.  _Melissa almost found out about the Triptocaine. You're just lucky she left Kellen's house when she did, otherwise… You're getting careless. Think of the consequences. Nobody must ever know: keep the darkness concealed._ He had been hiding it for so long within him, so very long. It was getting harder and he was weary. Perhaps it was an inevitability that his shame would out, that the day would come when he would be forced to give up his title as a Special Agent. The mere possibility of it was an obsidian rock in the back of Jayden's mind, small and dense and bitter and agonizing, weighing down his thoughts.

But even more horrific, so profane that he had to hastily swat them away when they came to him, were the nauseating words Kellen had uttered.  _Your employers wouldn't give this to you. This drug is produced for its addictive qualities._ Over and over and over like a broken prayer. Yet they were doubts Norman was half-familiar with finding in gloomy recesses of own his mind, skulking idly in places they shouldn't.

These treacheries weren't true. How could they be? Kellen couldn't possibly know about Triptocaine, because it was classified information.  _Just the ramblings of an old man._

Norman could tell he was lying to himself again.

Jayden interrupted his sinful reverie to observe Agent Donahue sidelong. She was not looking back at him. She was staring at her computer screen, holding a pen suspended in the fingers of her left hand. He noticed how she tapped the side of her leg against her desk restlessly and the way her fine hair fell over her shoulders.

The young man presumed she was adding the final touches to the report for their current case. Forrester, anxious about their lack of leads, had on Wednesday requested a presentation on their progress so far: before Norman could agree, Melissa had promised self-assuredly to have it ready by the following morning.

This was good. This left Jayden to research independently, which was what he was best at, although he wasn't doing much of it right now. He just wanted to  _stop thinking_. He wanted to regress into the indifferent logic and precision of a tailored reality; and acknowledging this, Norman grasped a hold of ARI and settled its black frame across his face. This in itself was a testament to his flustered state of mind. Usually he wouldn't hesitate to wear those glasses at the first opportunity that arose, but today, well, his thoughts had been elsewhere.

The agent settled back in his chair as the floor beneath his feet became a carpet of leaves, and all around him materialised mottled tree trunks. Jayden's vision was cloaked in a filter of amber and green. His mind was reassured, for everything was better in this world. A lopsided smile brushed his lips as he tugged at a cabinet drawer suspended in the air before him, opening up a whole directory filled with countless virtual files.

Before he knew what was happening, his quick fingers were pulling out a dossier entitled  _Added Reality Interface_ and releasing its hazy blue contents. This was slightly unexpected _._ He had fully intended to undertake some more research into his heroin smuggler, but, now that  _this_  report was open in front of him, there was no harm in taking a look at it.

Norman had read the folder many times: it evoked within him a peculiar of sense of fascination, rendering him a child once more. He almost murmured the words under his breath as he skimmed over them.

_The Added Reality Interface, or ARI, is a database storage system and virtual reality program used exclusively within the FBI to assist Special Agents. This advanced device, first developed in 2010, takes the form of a lightweight pair of black sunglasses with a fine polycarbonate mesh across the lenses to allow a realistic virtual atmosphere to be projected upon the vision of the wearer. Used in tandem, a leather glove enhanced with delicate sensor pads enables the virtual reality to be manipulated whilst also registering and analyzing data from the local environment._

As the false breeze swept through his hair, carrying the scent of dry soil and crushed leaves, Jayden gently massaged the air before his eyes to scroll further along in the document.

_Development and Distribution. In early 2010, researchers in the FBI_ _'s Technology Services Unit began developing sophisticated new equipment capable of interfacing with the human brain through electromagnetic radiation. By the following year the first ARI prototypes had been constructed, and in May 2011 a number of trial models were given to select Special Agents._

There the article stopped abruptly. Norman Jayden was one of those select Special Agents, and once upon a time that had been an utter privilege to him. But now, had he the chance to go back, he wasn't entirely sure he would want to accept those inky black lenses with their furtive truths and seductive lies.

But  _of course_  he would. However much he tried to deny it, and however much they harmed him, he was still a slave to ARI.

Norman sighed under his breath and was about to close the file with a half-hearted wave of his hand when a wandering thought came to him. It was odd, he mused, that the record mentioned nothing of Triptocaine. ARI and Tripto went hand in hand like bread and butter, like the sun and the rain. He still remembered the day that Forrester had handed the blissful vial to him - had told him that it was a supplicant produced to ease the side-effects of virtual reality. Then it had taken all his pain away.

_Well, for a while at least._

So why no reference to it? Tripto had been administered along with the glasses. _Perhaps there are some secrets the Bureau has to hide even within itself_ , his mind offered. After all, a substantial part of the main database the sunglasses tapped into could be accessed through the hard copies of the files at HQ: but the ARI project was still essentially confidential.

The young man was so wrapped up in his deliberation that he did not hear the clear ring of heel on concrete floor. It was only when he felt a shadow fall upon him that he looked up, to see Donahue standing at the edge of his desk, suddenly a tangible part of his fantasy. She was blocking the light from the sun and it encompassed her, with gilded leaves falling all around her and the greens of their surroundings somehow making her ochre eyes even more brilliant.

"Jayden," she said.

He removed the glasses and slipped them back into his pocket. Once again the room was plain and unremarkably drab.

"It's 10 o'clock. Time for the report."

They left the office and made their through the twisted warren that was the Bureau's Headquarters until they reached Conference Room 4. Norman reached forwards to hold the door open for Donahue, and she smiled in return.  _How can a smile be so effortless?_

The room was small but well-lit, making it seem more spacious than it actually was. In the centre was an oval-shaped table, surrounded by a dozen or so chairs, and on the furthest wall hung a projection screen.

"Are you ready?" asked Jayden as his partner began setting up her presentation.

She laughed the ghost of a laugh and busily swept back her hair. "Yeah, I'm ready. Just promise me you'll be there to step in if I get anything important wrong."

Norman leant against the wall and crossed his arms. His clouded eyes were set upon the woman as she whirled round like a delicate summer breeze. There was a period of quiet as she silently organised herself, but to Jayden it did not feel uncomfortable. Perhaps she felt the same way. Or perhaps she was too preoccupied to even notice.

"Thank you. Thank you for coming to Washington, and helping us out, and being so involved in this case even though you've barely been here a day. It's very professional, and, well, you've made things a lot easier. For me. I just… I thought I should say thanks."

The female agent glanced up from the notes she was reading over. "Just part of the job, Jayden." She was fixing him with a distorted expression he struggled to comprehend.  _What are you doing here, Melissa?_

A few minutes later, Forrester joined them, along with a number of other agents and FBI specialists. Once they had seated themselves around the conference table, Norman flicked off the lights and plunged the room into darkness.

"Good morning," said Agent Donahue. As the screen behind her sprang into life, she was the first thing to be lit by the harsh synthetic glow. "I'm sure you all know why we're here, but I'll offer a short recap just to refresh everyone's memories." Her voice sounded sharp and composed in the static stillness.  _Seems pretty confident._

She pressed down on her handheld remote, and projections of a large industrial cargo ship appeared. "Nine days ago, during a routine inspection, the Metropolitan Police Department uncovered over a hundred kilograms of white heroin stashed onboard a Panamax tanker. The vessel travelled a direct route from Beijing to Washington over a period of eleven days, transporting mainly liquid petroleum products.

"The current investigation to track down the dealer responsible for this shipment is being headed by Agent Jayden and myself." Melissa gestured towards Norman at the back of the room.

After allowing a moment for several heads to turn towards her partner, the woman moved briskly onto the next slide. "We have ascertained a few pieces of information to date. The employees stationed on the tanker have been questioned, but so far they are either unwilling to reveal information or were genuinely unaware that the drugs had been hidden. Most of the sailors speak only Mandarin, so clearly examinations have been made considerably more complicated with the need for a translator present." Data scrolled up on the screen as the agent continued to speak.

"The majority of these men are poorly-paid and poorly-educated. They're unsettled by their stay in America and appear to be panicked by our questions, despite our attempts to reassure them." She paused to move the presentation along, displaying various images of the men in question. "It is highly unlikely that any of them are implicated in the drug trafficking operation in a significant way. However, there is still a possibility that one or more of the workers could have been paid to smuggle the drugs aboard. We will continue to query them for more insight into the likelihood of this."

Donahue moved forwards, scanning the assembled group with eyes gleaming like a cat's under the beam of the projector. Norman took note of her poise and relaxed control. He hated giving presentations.

"The amount of heroin discovered is currently estimated to be worth 17 million US dollars. Clearly we are dealing with one of the major players in the drug trade. We're looking for a dealer or cartel not only able to pay for a transaction of this size, but also influential enough to have links to suppliers in China."

One of their colleagues seated at the table spoke up. "Have you contacted any agents in China?"

Melissa shook her head. "The Special Agent stationed in Beijing is at present involved in an undercover assignment. Until we can regain contact, we'll have to proceed as best we can without their aid."

Crossing over to the opposite side of the projection screen, Donahue once more alluded to her silent partner. Was she smiling tenderly, or was it a trick of the light? "Now, Agent Jayden and I, we've outlined a list of who we believe to be our likeliest suspects based on past activities and power within the global drug industry. But without further evidence, our investigation is limited. Yesterday we visited ex-dealer and valued informant David Kellen, and based on his expertise we have decided that our next course of action will be to examine the D.C. Docks for traces of additional trafficked drugs."

Melissa nodded towards Norman to indicate that she was finished. He turned the lights on once more, their immediate and glaring sting causing him to wince involuntarily.

Forrester, however, seemed both undaunted by the light and displeased with the presentation. His forehead was lined, his face set with irritation. As Jayden looked towards the female agent, he saw that she had stopped moving about animatedly; her hands were clasped before her as though she was attempting to control their movement.

"I don't like this, Donahue," growled their superior whilst rising in his chair. "Searching the docks? You do realise that's an area of nearly a whole square mile?"

Melissa was shrinking back into herself, a timid mouse compared to the secure woman Norman knew she could be.  _Hell, she was so assertive just a second ago._ Her voice was suddenly soft and docile, flowing uncertainly like treacle. "Sir, I believe it's our best option - at the moment - considering we really have nowhere else to look -"

The older man shook his head harshly. "No, no, I don't like it at all. It's an utter waste of your time. Think of something more productive you could be doing, please, and perhaps you'll catch this bastard." The next moment, he had marched out of the room. It held its breath behind him.

Jayden swiftly made his way to his partner's side, ignoring the remaining men who filed out of their own accord, taking their clumsy mutterings with them. She was inert, drained, like a flower whose petals had fallen prematurely.

_Goddamn Forrester!_ He was unpredictably filled with an explosive wrath, a maelstrom beginning in his head and circling down through his body, causing his hands to twitch instinctively.  _Why's he have to be so fucking inconsiderate?_

Forcing himself to unclench his fists, Norman endeavoured to regulate a calm tone. "Don't listen to him. I'm just as much a part of this investigation as you are, and he had no right to lash out at you alone."

The woman had closed her eyes. She was silent for a length of time as she stood motionless, and Jayden got the feeling that she was somehow unable to speak. When her lips finally parted, her words were hesitant. "Thank you. But I'm fine." Brushing past him, Donahue swept out of the door with all the dignified conviction she could muster.

Norman placed his hands in his pockets, aware of the futility of the motion. The room around him was deserted, and his ire was slowly dissipating, although the projector continued to emit an intense white light onto the opposite wall.  _Why do I feel as though I'm missing something?_

Melissa paced away from the conference room with a vehemence atypical for her reasonable character, arms pinned to her sides. The sound of her shoes grated severely against the polished floor. Upon barging into the nearest bathroom and establishing it was empty, she at once wiped the moisture from her eyes. Was she the one making those hushed snuffling noises?

The young woman came to stand in front of the sinks. When she stared into the large mirror hanging above the washbasins, meeting her own gaze, there was no compassion reflected in the frosty glass.  _For God's sake, Melissa. How can you be so weak?_ She looked away from her doppelgänger; disinterested, detached.

_You're a grown woman now, not a little girl. Don't let your guard down again. Do what you've been sent here to do, and stay focused._

Fixing stray wisps of hair in an almost mechanical manner, the agent spoke softly to herself. "Just get it over with." She smiled once, weakly, into the mirror, as though to build courage, and then left the washroom to return to the grim and demanding world of the FBI.


	5. Optimism

Thursday

2:12 pm

.

It was several hours later when the partners found themselves in Norman's car once again, driving purposefully towards the docks at the heart of Washington D.C. Thankfully Agent Jayden's mood had improved somewhat in that span of time and his restlessness was beginning to clear.  _Still, some Tripto would be nice about now..._ But there were always thoughts which needed to be blocked before they could intensify, always a deeper section of himself he had to enchain.

Passing them by as they neared the river was a series of abandoned buildings. The traffic thinned quickly: few people had reason to visit these more industrial areas of the city.

In the skies the clouds continued to gather keenly. Every so often a tiny bead of water would strike the windshield and crawl its trembling way across, but it wasn't yet raining in earnest. To Norman this halfway house between the calm and the storm, a hovering dream-state, was almost worse than the downpour itself.  _Just get it over with, why don't you?_

A presence to his right, however, relaxed him. Melissa was seated opposite, and the thought of her company caused him to slacken his grip on the steering wheel. He had seen so much of the agent in the past few days that he thought it would feel strange, wrong somehow, if she were no longer there. Already she had become a familiar sight to him; comforting, constant, with those unyieldingly yellow eyes. Something he wanted to hold onto.

_Jeez, Norman. You sound like a kid with a security blanket._

"Really hate this weather," Jayden said suddenly, to scatter his internal musings if nothing else.

Donahue was pursuing a raindrop along the window with her gaze. "How can you not love the rain? It's beautiful, cleansing. I'd take it over summer droughts any day."

"Goddamn rain is only good for one thing, and that's ruining suits without mercy," he countered. Beside him, the woman chuckled. Norman could drink up her breezy laughter.  _It's easy for you, Melissa. I doubt you could hate anything even if you tried._

As the minutes passed and they drew closer to their destination, the gentle thrumming sound of the Taurus' engine soothed both of its inhabitants. Norman glanced at his partner several times from the corner of his eye. She appeared at ease now, despite her neurotic departure from the conference room earlier that morning. Melissa hadn't taken Forrester's typical hard-hearted criticism so well. And whilst she was being a little overly sensitive, he was being a little overly callous, so Norman supposed it all levelled out in the end.

It had taken some convincing to get her to accompany him to the docks in the hopes of discovering hidden drugs, as David Kellen had advised. At first Donahue had flat out refused - if Forrester had told them not to go, then they wouldn't go.  _She really did take what he said to heart_. Jayden hadn't expected that sort of behaviour from her, but about this she was firm in her decision to adhere strictly to orders.

He persevered, for whatever reason. She had bitten fretfully at her fingernails: but his assurance that nobody need know of their trip unless they actually did find anything, coupled with their utter lack of evidence and the fact that they were both effectively sitting around twiddling their thumbs until they found some, eventually wore her down.

"Besides," he had said, "Forrester doesn't know what he's talking about. We're FBI agents, not his lackeys. It doesn't matter what we do so long as we catch criminals, and at the end of the day even he doesn't give a damn about anything but results."

She'd given in; Norman had never really considered himself a good speaker, but it seemed to work for her. Whether he was influential or she was indecisive, he supposed he'd never know. Either way they both found themselves inside his Ford Taurus on a dreary December's day, heading at 35 miles per hour towards the D.C. Docks.

Her voice broke his chain of thought. "Jayden."

He was eager to pull his vision away from the monotone road and onto her, raising his eyebrows in query.

"I think this is it."

Norman chastised himself for not paying attention and swerved the car round a tight bend. Emerging into their view came factories, and various buildings involved in manufacture and storage, signalling the start of the docklands area. Quickly finding his bearings, the young man directed them towards the empty warehouse closest to the dock where the heroin had been found. As he eased the Ford to a halt, the world fell into silence.

Donahue opened her door after a moment's delay. Agent Jayden followed suit, stepping out onto the cracked tarmac and stealthily checking his pockets before locking the vehicle.

The warehouse lay directly ahead, looming, a black pillar of steel and glass. Melissa remained close to the side of the car, her arms folded uneasily. The young man stepped forwards and gave his partner an encouraging smile. "Let's take a look around, shall we?" He was busying himself with retrieving his sunglasses from the inside of his jacket.

Donahue nodded by way of response. Advancing towards the large metal doors that served as an entrance to the lofty structure, she peered through a fractured windowpane into a vast expanse of gloom and dust. She rattled the door handle and saw that it was still secured half-heartedly by a rusted old padlock. The lock was not actually clamped shut, however, and the agent easily removed the offending hunk of metal, throwing it to the ground.

Norman came and heaved against the doors: they swung open and met the walls of the building with a resounding clash. As he straightened, Melissa could see that he was now fully equipped with ARI and the futuristic-looking glove on his right hand. An unsettling expression set on his features, she had begun to notice, every time he wore those glasses. Without his ice-blue eyes, his face seemed false. It was vacant and cold, as though his mind was somewhere else altogether. It frightened her a little.

"The warehouses in this section of the docklands were constructed in the sixties," Jayden was saying to himself. "Almost all of them are abandoned, but nobody's got round to demolishing them yet. An ideal place for illegal cargo to be hidden."

This particular building looked like a typical deserted storage area, no doubt a carbon copy of the numerous other warehouses along the waterfront. It was shady labyrinth composed of silhouettes and dusk, although the opened doorway spilled illumination onto a small portion of it. Ancient wooden boxes and slender steel constructs, reminders of its busy heyday, divided the space into a manmade network which would be nightmarish to explore thoroughly. Cobwebs which had remained untouched for years hung in its corners and a thick coating of dust was just waiting to be stirred up. Donahue had difficulty making out the back of the expansive structure many feet away, apart from here and there where windows on the ceiling, high above, would puncture the dreariness with a beam of faded winter light.

"So how does this work?" the agent asked as she watched Jayden step across the threshold and into the shadows. "Are those special glasses of yours going to help us navigate this mess and find these drugs? Assuming there are any to be found."

"Something like that," was his hushed reply.

"By the lack of dismay on your face, I take it you have complete confidence in your gadgets."

But Norman did not supply an answer. He was already engrossed in the information highway, the steady flashes of turquoise burning onto his retina. As he flexed his palm and an electromagnetic pulse was sent radiating about him in a neat concentric pattern, multitudes of electronic tags sprung up displaying various points of interest.  _Looks like this is going to take some time._ From the lenses' artificial glow, Jayden could distinguish the far-reaching areas on the opposite side of the warehouse, which appeared to be just as cluttered: there was a lot of ground to cover.

The agent - now in his element - immediately set about examining each one of the spots ARI had flagged up. As was to be expected, the majority of these were irrelevant to the case. Fingerprints from dockland employees, traces of chemicals once stored in the building, the odd remaining piece of material, fingerprints, fingerprints, and more fingerprints.

For a minute or so Melissa looked on with curiosity as Norman proceeded in his own methodical way. He would stoop down or lean over a possible piece of evidence and stare at it intensely, all the while saying things quietly to no one in particular.

"ARI comment: another set of prints from Jeffrey Stevens, worker at the docks for fifteen years."

"ARI comment: sample of no interest."

From what the female agent had gathered so far through snatches of gossip combined with careful first-hand scrutiny of her partner, ARI was a very powerful tool. Records and archives which should by all means take days to track down could be found by Jayden within a matter of moments. The glasses seemed to contain communication devices and data-storing facilities and a miniature forensics lab, amongst other things.

As Norman continued with the task at hand, Melissa began to conduct her own search around the warehouse. She wasn't sure she was contributing anything major to the endeavour, poking around crates and in corners, but she had to do  _something_.

Unfortunately neither of them appeared to be unearthing anything of great significance. As the minutes slipped away, Agent Jayden moved swiftly but efficiently about the abandoned building, barely stopping in one place for any length of time: he saw that Donahue remained closer to the doors, half-hidden as she rummaged in long forgotten recesses. Through the entrance light was poured into the interior and was dazzlingly bright against the shade.

Once he was certain he had looked over the entirety of the area, Norman removed his sunglasses with the usual tinge of regret and paced back through the intricate maze to where Melissa was investigating. As he caught sight of his partner, he was unable to hide a trace of frivolity from his voice. "Found anything?" he asked.

Melissa removed herself clumsily from the small gap between a number of boxes that she was currently exploring, her cheeks reddening somewhat.  _Ah, so she's not immune to a little mockery._ But her voice remained doggedly confident. "No. And neither have you, I see."

"Well, we've only just got started. Don't worry, Donahue, there's plenty of other places for us to search." He wasn't sure why, but all of a sudden he felt in higher spirits than he had done for some time. Perhaps it was the dimness of the warehouse causing everything to look several hues lighter in contrast, or simply the refreshing pleasure of being somewhere quite different with somebody new - or maybe, just maybe, it had something to do with his choice of companionship. He watched Melissa wipe her hands free of dust on her trench coat.

Filled as he was with hopeful energy and an unanticipated impulse to prove his worth, the agent made a beeline towards the entrance, where the daylight greeted him like a long lost friend.

Donahue placed her hands on her hips, glancing around her as she remained resolutely cloaked by darkness. "We're leaving?"

"Sure. There's nothing here."

"Really?" Incredulity blemished herface. "You're telling me you've searched the entire building in less than half an hour?"

Norman was squinting as his eyes adjusted to being outside once more. "Hey, I told you ARI was an agent's best friend." She still wasn't budging, so Jayden tried his best to laugh a convincingly natural laugh. "If we can put a man on the moon I think the FBI can produce glasses able to scan a warehouse for drugs."

She narrowed her eyes, before shrugging her shoulders in defeat. "Right, of course. I guess it's just difficult to get my head around the technology," she said as she walked over to his side.

Emerging back into the world, removing their mantle of obscurity, they found that the sky appeared to have lightened somewhat during their time indoors: either genuinely, or as an illusion brought about by their sense of sight growing more receptive. Agent Jayden shut the doors behind them, hooking the padlock once more into the tarnished ring of metal.  _I wonder how long that dust will be left to settle until it is disturbed again._

"So where to now?" Melissa was studying the structures adjacent to them.

The sound of crowing water birds split the afternoon air. Norman motioned towards the closest warehouse, whose exterior looked virtually identical to the one they had just finished inspecting, save for a few more broken windows. In this area of Washington it was hard to tell any of the buildings apart: an unfortunate affliction caused by the purpose-driven, speedy construction of urban industry.

Approaching their second destination in a mass of duplicates, the partners found that the entrance was not locked - in fact, the doors were ajar. This interior was just as chaotic and murky as the previous one, with aged pieces of furniture strewn sporadically for good measure. Jayden templed his hands in anticipation.  _Ah, the life of an FBI profiler. Search for evidence, find evidence, rinse and repeat._ It was beautiful in its way.

A curious, miraculous thing occurred as they were entering through the wrought iron doors. Upon the very verge between light and dark, Melissa caught the edge of a container or mistimed her steps slightly: she stumbled and tripped, made a short, startled noise, and might have fallen headfirst had it not been for Norman, who was there in an instant, positioned between herself and the floor.

It took several beats of a thudding heart to pass before Norman realised that they were both keeping incredibly still; and she was somehow wrapped in his arms; and he had never been this close before and he could pick out flecks of caramel in her eyes and three faint freckles on the bridge of her nose.  _Oh God, I'm touching her_. His skin was aflame. Could she feel the runaway hammering of his pulse? How long had passed and how long had he been astray in the sultry summer fields of her gaze?  _Fuck, Norman, you have to let go._ He cleared his throat and it was a roaring in his ears.

Melissa inhaled awkwardly. She scrambled to gain a footing, pressed her hands against a nearby piece of metal and prised herself from his grasp. He had to wrench his eyes away.

A gentle and wavering chuckle arrived unexpectedly at his ears. Against all odds she was laughing. "I'm sorry. That was stupid, wasn't it?" came her rich voice.

He couldn't contain his lopsided smile.

She shook her head, grinning, and caught her hands in her pockets. "Come on, let's get going." She had to move away quickly, as though she might get embarrassed if she stood in once spot for too long. A peculiar smug expression settled on Jayden's face and refused to budge. As they set about investigating again the partners were sure to keep a precise, unspoken, but not unkind distance between them.

If he had been working well before, it seemed like now he was progressing with Herculean speed and fortitude. Some sort of sweet, wholesome air was filling him up and he floated along as if suspended by a blessed zephyr. So many forgotten things were slowly being remembered, as though a part of him he thought dead had become reawakened. In the back of his mind he knew that once upon a time he had been a great agent; he had been full of drive, full of honour… s _o why is everything so difficult now?_   _Like wading through a thick ocean of insecurity and vice._ God _,_ but just for this moment she made it seem so effortless that he recalled an age when he was young and life was clean and pure, not tainted, not a perennial twilight, not heavy rain nor the weight of remorse pressing down so hard that his bones cracked. The memories tasted like honey on his tongue.

Within barely fifteen minutes he had completed his circuit of the structure, and returned to where she was. This time, when Norman took off ARI, he almost forgot to notice the sting of disappointment. And as for Tripto, it had been over thirty minutes since he'd given it even a passing thought.

Melissa appeared to be waiting for him. "Nothing over here. And let me guess, you didn't find any drugs."

"No rest for the wicked." He beckoned her outside, again to be enveloped by the sun's rays, and towards their next objective. And so they moved onto the third building.

Donahue called out in cheerful mock-exasperation as they were met again with the tedious sight of dirty crates, of disregarded debris. "Oh good! Another warehouse filled to the brim with junk. This looks thrilling, Jayden. Are you excited? I'm excited."

Norman probably would have tried to think of a witty retort, only he had just placed his glasses across his face and he instantly knew something was different here. What looked like dozens of data points had emerged on ARI's interface, all glowing in eagerness, forming a vague trail from the back entrance to an area along the left wall where they clustered furtively. The agent hurried towards them.

Bending down on his knees, he detected a minuscule and almost imperceptible deposit of fine white powder. "ARI comment: traces of heroin present. Sample too small for analysis." His features kept an impassive mask, but his voice was noticeably rushed. Hastily, he was onto the next spinning virtual mark, where he discovered more of the drug. Jayden straightened and saw the heroin was littered densely around a carefully-positioned barrier of corrugated iron sheets.  _What do we have here?_

He began tugging on the metal in an effort to pull it free. Melissa came and joined the venture. They shifted boxes filled with grimy copper parts, working silently, until eventually the metal plates could be heaved out of the way.

"Oh my God," said Donahue.

They had revealed perhaps hundreds of plastic packets all filled with heroin; sachet upon sachet piled together, crammed into a discrete space between the wall and huge industrial containers which looked too heavy to move.

Norman grabbed the nearest packet and ripped it open with his hands. An ashen white substance spilled easily forth, trickling through his fingers, creating a mound on the floor.

"ARI comment: hidden in the warehouse are large quantities of white heroin stored in clear plastic packets, estimated 80 kilograms. According to the molecular analysis, there's a ninety-seven percent chance that this heroin is from the same supplier as the shipment discovered on the tanker." Jayden set the split package down beside the others. "Well, what do you know. Third time's the charm. Kellen was right after all."

Edging to the left, he selected a single electronic tag which had caught his eye. Amongst many other tiny spills of heroin which ARI had highlighted, it appeared to be a fingerprint left on one of the iron sheets. Now the profiler couldn't disguise the exhilaration in his tone. "Donahue, it just gets better. Also present is the print of one Christopher Abbot, aged 29, somewhat of a shady character who was fined for possession of cannabis in 2007."  _At last, a lead!_ He basked in the delightfully warming knowledge that he had made a good decision, had taken a single step closer to the agent he used to be.

Melissa was beaming. "Good work, Norman. I do believe we're finally going somewhere with this investigation."

Once the pair had called HQ to report the exact location of their find, and then gone over the entire area, not really expecting to find anything else but also not eager to miss any potential evidence, they were free to leave. It was just after 4 o'clock and Donahue joked that it had been at least two hours since her last cup of coffee.

Outside the sky was still clouded over deviously, but as the partners drove away from the docks Jayden felt that he was experiencing a bright and sunshiny day which couldn't possibly be dimmed.

Hindsight, however, is a powerful thing: and had Norman known what would await him back at Headquarters, he may not have been so quick to indulge in his optimism. The object in question was in his office, positioned neatly in the centre of his desk amidst various other files and folders, blissfully unaware of the mess around it and happy just to serve its humble purpose. It was an envelope.

Jayden noticed it as he was searching for a pen on his desk. He was saying something to Melissa as he picked it up, thinking at first it was nothing more than a loose scrap. Opening it, he discovered a piece of paper which was thin and flimsy, almost like tracing paper; a little crumpled and buttery in colour; printed upon it were words from a typewriter, arranged trimly across the page.

As he began to read the agent soon realised this was not a mere scrap. Consequently, he forgot what he had been going to say to his partner, he started to tremble and reach mechanically into his pocket, and just like that the skies had burst open and rained all over his parade.

_Hello Norman._

_I am Raine. You do not know me, but I know much about you._

_As you read this, you are likely to feel a number of emotions, including disbelief, anger, and fear. I must stress beforehand that you should hide all of these: if anyone is present in the room with you, do not give them any indication of what you are about to learn. Most importantly, it is imperative that nobody sees the contents of this letter but you._

_All that you know about ARI and Triptocaine is false. You think that they were created to aid agents such as yourself, but the truth is much darker. The FBI is not always working for the good of the American people._

_I know that you have experienced the dangers of ARI firsthand, thinking they were simply side-effects of a brilliant tool. But its creators were always aware of its addictiveness and its hazards; it was manufactured with these factors in mind. Furthermore, Triptocaine was developed not afterwards as a response to unforeseen consequences of Added Reality, but simultaneously, to be the precise substance capable of diminishing ARI's negative effects. The drug, too, was created to be as addictive as possible rather than to genuinely help you. Do you see the genius? In a single strike the FBI was able to mould agents not only substantially more effective and time-efficient, but also completely dependant on Triptocaine to function: a rare drug produced exclusively by the Bureau. Thus, ARI and Triptocaine are nothing more than a complex leash, in essence tying you forever to a life of service as a Special Agent. In the process your body, your mind, and all of your rights as a human being are compromised._

_There are several agents who are part of the ARI project, but I have chosen you alone to disclose this information to. From what I know of you, Norman Jayden, I think you are the one who is most likely to believe me - who has already had doubts of their own - who will take this knowledge and fight back against the evil that is threatening to destroy all we stand for. There is more evil in the FBI than you can ever know._

_I pray that I have been wise to write to you. I hope you will come to realise that all I say is true. I will be in contact again soon, and I will send proof. The Bureau is better than any criminal at hiding its secrets, but if you search hard, you may find your own truths._

_Lastly, I am sure I do not need to tell you that you must be infinitely careful. Those responsible for ARI are influential, and will not hesitate to eradicate anyone who may jeopardise their plans._

_Burn this letter immediately._


	6. Desire

Friday

5:36 pm

.

Confused. This was how Norman felt on Friday. More than disbelief or anger or fear, he felt confusion. It was the kind of disconcerting disorientation which caused the earth to grind to a halt and the sombre clouds to race by, double-time, in the sky.

Actions which usually felt natural and automatic now felt painfully alien. When Norman Jayden shaved that morning, he had to remind himself of the exact twist of the wrist, the correct amount of pressure required to skim lightly over tired flesh without drawing the precious fluid from within. He touched a finger to the scar across his cheek, as he did every morning, and lingered, absorbed in the perplexing hurricane that was his fate. A hurricane is a marvel of duality – a fleeting, miraculous system sustained by rises and falls – at all times synchronously sinking and floating.

And a hurricane is what his head felt like. As he drove to work, unaware that he was late, barely seeing the other cars on the road, his thoughts were a whirling blur. His poor performance yesterday was nothing compared to the sham of an FBI profiler he had seamlessly transmogrified into overnight. It was sickening to him.  _How many cases could you have solved already if you weren't wasting time? Time means lives, Jayden._

However, hurricanes are monumental forces of nature impossible for mere mortals to control.

He spent much of the day aimlessly shifting around at his desk, trying to ignore the files spread-eagled like a taunt before him, squirming in his seat, moving in exactly the same restless and meandering fashion as his contemplation _. I burnt the letter, I sifted the ashes into the trash. Nobody could find it._ Unfortunately a digital copy remained: emblazoned stubbornly, irreversibly, into his mind.

_Was it real?_ His eyes were blank as he sat, caught up in the cyclone of his speculations. Norman was the type of person who, once faced with a problem, was physically unable to leave it alone until he had systematically picked it apart piece by piece, and ultimately solved it.  _Why would anyone lie? How could they know about ARI in the first place, let alone Tripto? It must be someone within the FBI itself. No one else could have access to such information. And if they know about me, maybe I know about them – I could walk past this Raine every day in the corridor without having a clue. If in some conceivable way it could be true – God, if it is true – why would they tell me? What could be worth the risk? The message wasn't delivered electronically, it was typed on paper so all traces of it could be destroyed. The sender must be afraid of being discovered. But why send it now? What prompted them?_ He realised that he was leaning forwards, and lowered himself back into his chair in an attempt to restrain his rampant brain. His wrists were beginning to twitch.  _Slow down, Norman._

Jayden excused himself throughout the day to leave for the bathroom, where, if he was lucky, he would be alone. Fortunately this was one such instance. Nobody was there but his own sordid reflection, eyeing him cautiously through grey mirrors which were regularly polished to perfection but which still held inevitable traces of grime and dirt around the edges. Holed away in the toilets, he did not have to look from face to face, from colleague to acquaintance, and wonder,  _which of you are the enemy? How many of you know?_ He did not want to have to make contact with anyone, even Melissa. Especially Melissa.

Who could he trust? This was the question Jayden asked the apparition before him in the mirror. It never supplied any answers.

Things were different today. Everything seemed to be colder. He was stuck in a web of ambiguity, unable to turn around, unable to break free or make any headway. He had a dull headache and was gripped by pangs of Triptocaine craving which had been mercifully absent for several days, but which now returned with a vengeance. The weather had developed into a canvas of malevolent black clouds rolling turbulently overhead. Even the coffee tasted worse than usual. His whole professional life had turned upon its head.

As a young child, Norman had found a perverse sort of pleasure in repeating a single word continually until such a powerful tool became intelligible on his tongue, reduced to nothing more than a humorous string of syllables. He was reminded of the same feeling now; as if he had spent too long obsessing over everything, and that sense of twisted weirdness had come back to haunt him.

_Maybe the letter really is true. Oh fuck, if it is, if it is, well… we'll deal with that when we have to. But it could still be a lie._ This recognition settled over him like a cooling, balmy breeze, and he eagerly took a hold of the alleviating feeling.  _It could very easily be a lie, tailored to affect me in just this way. A hoax. Or even a test, fucking hell, knowing the FBI – they could be testing me! An evaluation of loyalty!_ Jayden closed his eyes with the multitude of emotions that this chilling possibility brought him.  _For now, until even a shred of proof is produced, I'll treat it like what it is: a lie. Yes, of course, a lie._  His mind made up, and a firm decision settled upon as comforting as the steady ground under unsure and unstable feet, Norman immediately felt better; lighter, less erratic, as though the hurricane had rapturously moved away to pastures new.

Norman ran the water until it was a reasonable temperature, splashed his face, and prepared to return to the office.

Agent Donahue walked to work that morning. The FBI had supplied her with a sedan car which she could use as she saw fit during her time in D.C., but something had seized a hold of her as she sipped coffee in the small kitchen of her temporary apartment, encouraging her to forgo the car in favour of her own two feet. Her current place of residence was owned by the Bureau – mostly to be occupied by passing agents such as herself - and was conveniently located only a short distance from Headquarters. As she walked along the streets of Washington she had noticed several raindrops landing on her, a threat from the ominous and overbearing sky.

Once in the office, the agent allocated her time during the day to two main tasks. The first was to research Christopher Abbot, whose fingerprints they had found yesterday along with a stash of heroin at the abandoned dockland warehouses. The second was to watch Norman Jayden.

As soon as she had arrived at HQ Melissa could tell that something was amiss. Norman was having trouble keeping still or undertaking any work at all. He was jumpy, constantly springing up onto his feet, searching for reasons to leave the room.  _A sign of stress_ , she identified. It seemed particularly odd that he wasn't immersed in the heroin case, especially after he had been so relieved to find some evidence at long last the previous day. Perhaps a little foolishly, she decided not to make anything of it, but rather leave him to his own devices whilst she busied herself with furthering their knowledge of Mr Abbot.  _There'll be plenty of time for confrontation later_.

And a confrontation did indeed occur, at approximately 6 pm. Jayden had left for the washrooms for perhaps the fourth time, deserting his partner to a stuffy office and the static electricity of an approaching storm which was seeping in through the windows. Donahue bit upon the end of a pencil and narrowed her eyes. He had barely talked to her all day. When she asked him a question, he would provide a monosyllabic answer or shrug his shoulders and move towards the filing cabinets.  _And we'd been getting along so well._  What could have brought about this change? Nothing had altered between them, nothing had happened.  _Unless… it couldn't be_ , she joked with her subconscious mind. _Not my fall yesterday, at the warehouses? And his lucky catch?_   _What, he's not still embarrassed by my behaviour, is he?_  The absurdity of the thought caused her lips to twitch into a smile, and she had to glance at the floor to hide her brightened face.

Within a few minutes Jayden had returned. He seemed rather more sedate now –  _had something happened in the toilets?_  - and moved at a less agitated pace. He even gave Melissa a strained smile as he shut the door behind him. Nonetheless, she took the opportunity to stand up and pursue Norman back to his desk. As he pretended to poke around for something in the clutter, she crossed her arms and adopted a well-honed tone: kindly, with just a hint of ice.

"Jayden. I know it's probably not my place, but you've been acting a little odd today."

The young man gave up his search resignedly and went to sit in his chair. "Yeah. Sorry about that." He did not offer any further explanation.

Donahue stepped forwards, her eyes earnest and her arms gesticulating loosely _. Gotta coax him out of his shell._  "Do you… want to talk about it?"

Norman worked his jaw. Today she was wearing trousers and a jacket, navy blue, but he could imagine the creamy skin just underneath the surface. "No, no I don't want to talk about it. I'm sorry, but I don't even know you." He intertwined his fingers, glaring at the floor; the blinds; the drawers on his desk; now determined to look anywhere but at her. "There's nothing to discuss."

Several seconds passed, during which time Jayden could feel Melissa's eyes boring into his head.

"Right, of course. Sorry." She relaxed her voice, and Norman couldn't help thinking that there had been something false -  _rehearsed_ , almost - in her words before. The notion was speedily waved away as the female agent picked a beige folder from her desk and returned to show it to her partner. "Well, look, Norman. We've got a good lead here. We can't waste it. I did some research on Christopher Abbot, and found an address to an old apartment block on Massachusetts Avenue." She placed a grainy image of the man in Jayden's hands. He looked young, unsmiling, with dark hair, but most of the features were hard to make out. It appeared to be a photo taken for a driver's license.

Melissa raised a light-hearted eyebrow as her lips twisted into a smile. "Now are we going to sit around all day in this tedious office, or are we actually going to go out and do our job?"

Norman didn't have a reply to that. He watched her for a long moment, studying her eyes of wheat and honey and things he was still unable to discern, wondering how his life could have been transformed so immensely in such a short amount of time, and then he picked up his jacket and followed her to the car park.

Jayden suggested taking Donahue's car, but she breezily informed him that she hadn't brought it to work today. He edged into the driver's seat and started the engine with a detached concentration, repeatedly reminding himself of the pact he had made:  _don't think about the letter._ Although he was steering the vehicle, Norman remained silent throughout most of the journey, instead allowing Melissa to assume verbal control.

"His apartment's close by. We'll be there soon," she said, shuffling through leaves of paper as they turned onto the main road. "Oh, just take a right here. That's it. Sorry, you know the way, don't you? Massachusetts Avenue Northwest."

She spoke in a hasty tone, vivid and glowing with her newly-found excitement. It appeared that Norman's partner was more than making up for his remarkable lack of enthusiasm. "So, Chris Abbot. He's 29, born in Kentucky. His family, uh, moved to Washington when he was a child. He left school at seventeen and started working at local factories, mainly, but he hasn't kept a job for any length of time. A few years ago he was fined for minor charges of cannabis possession. He's also been in trouble for shoplifting. From the police reports, I've gathered… well, he's not a dangerous criminal, but maybe he's got caught up in the wrong crowd. Maybe he owes someone a debt." As she reviewed her notes she picked at her nails, and sometimes glanced out of the window.

Within fifteen minutes the Ford Taurus pulled up onto Massachusetts Avenue. Donahue got out quickly, and began scanning the closest buildings. Passers-by on the sidewalk wore thick coats and held expectant umbrellas under their arms, waiting for provocation from the charcoal sky which rumbled and growled overhead.

"There. That's the one." Melissa nodded her head towards an apartment block some way to their right.

The partners entered the tall, dull structure. The lobby was merely a lifeless extension of the exterior, all peeling wallpaper and stained linoleum floors. A poster on the door informed them that a Mr Abbot could be found in apartment 3B. As they ascended in the elevator, the stench of stagnant air filled their nostrils. They met nobody during their sojourn through the corridors of the third floor. It was deathly quiet, the silence hanging heavy and rank, giving the building a disconcerting impression of being devoid of life.

Having reached flat number 3B, Melissa drew to a halt. Norman trailed just behind with his hands in his jacket pockets. As they stood together on the threshold, Jayden gave a succinct nod to the female agent, and an unspoken but lucid thread of understanding passed between them. She smiled as if to console him, but he merely rubbed his reddening eyes while she rapped upon the door.  _I really wish I was in a better state right now. Can't be making much of an impression._

They did not have to wait long before the door was pulled open jerkily to reveal a young man, observing them with mistrusting eyes. He wore old jeans and a white vest over a body which, the female agent noted, looked to be youthful and toned. In fact, he was almost handsome: a shock of thick black hair fell partially over his eyes and his features had a sculpted quality. A cigarette was still smouldering at his fingertips.

"Hello, Mr Abbot," said Melissa. "I'm Agent Donahue, this is Agent Jayden. We're from the FBI." She flashed her badge. "Do you mind if we come in?"

The man took an unnecessary amount of time to scrutinise her credentials. Then he shrugged his shoulders, took a drag on the cigarette, and kicked the door open further. "Be my guests."

The apartment was rather neater than the agents had expected given the conditions of the building in which it was situated. Although the scent of tobacco lingered, dense in the air, and Norman thought he could pick out faint nicotine stains on the walls, the cramped living space was reasonably clean and lit by two windows. Abbot pointed towards a modest sofa and the pair made for it, stealing furtive glances along the way. The kitchen and living room were melded into one single area inhabited chiefly by fridge, television, and couch, with a door to the left revealing a small slice of a bedroom.

Donahue took a seat. Jayden positioned himself at her side. Abbot remained standing, one arm akimbo, eyes a little squinted. "So, agents, what can I do you for?"

Melissa cast her vision around, taking in the quirks of the room: a black ashtray on the coffee table, a curtain rail standing unused against the wall, a wiry shadow upon the window calling attention to the fire escape outside. "This is a really nice place you've got."

"Uh, thanks."

There was a pause whilst she hunted for the correct attitude to utilise in such a situation.  _Gently, gently._ "Maybe you've heard on the news about the shipment of heroin the police seized a few days ago, on the Panamax tanker? At the moment we're investigating the case."

Abbot gave no visible implication of concern. He stole a deep intake from his stick of tobacco and tar, and continued to watch Donahue with a thin-lipped grimace. Had he even noticed that Jayden was present? Norman shifted where he was sitting, discomforted and annoyed by the way the man's eyes latched onto his partner and refused to let go.

"Yesterday we happened to be at the docks, and we actually found another stash of heroin, which we believe to be related to the tanker incident," persisted the young woman. "But the particularly odd thing is that we also found  _your_   _fingerprints_."

Almost without a moment's delay - "I used to work at those warehouses."

His words were far too automatic.  _Sorry, no dice. "_ There's no record of you ever having been employed at the docks." And just like that, her inner resistance was thrust into the light, the brutal timbre of her voice dissipating any mildness she may have evoked earlier.

Now they were teasing a response from the man. He crossed his arms in an attempt to defend himself from the dangerous subtext being hurled towards him. Melissa leaned forwards, creasing her forehead. "We know you're involved in this case somehow, Mr Abbot, we just need to know to what extent." He wasn't biting, so she forged ahead. "You're in trouble, aren't you? Somebody's forced you into working for them, they've toyed badly with you, and now the FBI's on your heels. How are  _they_  ever going to understand your association with a bunch of criminals, right?" The man inhaled on his cigarette, although this time his hand shook, and his dark eyes widened. "I know quite a bit about you, Mr Abbot. I know you're not a bad man, just an unlucky one. Tell us about the people you're working for. Help us track them down, and we'll help you. You know these are the bad guys. You want to see them behind bars just as much as we do. We can protect you. We can assure you safety, and whatever crimes they've implicated you in, we can get you off the hook. You must trust us."

Mr Abbot hung his head. Agent Donahue could see his chest undulating as his pulse was regulated. Silence once again swelled over the apartment, and Melissa was left to wonder at the otherworldly hush. Was nobody awake in the entire building? She couldn't even hear the sound of cars passing by outside, or the subdued buzz of a distant television set.

"No, no no no no, you don't understand. He's going to kill me for this. He's going to break my fucking neck… he probably already knows you're here. Oh God!" He ran a hand through his dishevelled hair, then spun his body to look around the room hopelessly. His eyes were revolving wildly.

"Mr Abbot, calm down," said the woman. She looked meaningfully at Jayden, who comprehended the significance of such an action and stood up at once. This was Psychology 101: be assertive. Reinforce your strength and stand your ground.

Except things didn't go quite to plan.

Norman edged forwards and to the side, trying to block the door. Abbot took another extended breath of tobacco, closing his lips about the cigarette, cherishing the sensation. Melissa, too, found herself upon her feet.  _What's he doing? Giving in already?_ Then the young man leant down slowly, tapping the glowing orange object in the ash tray. He moved so leisurely, so tauntingly. In a flash he had grabbed the substantial bulk of the tray and thrown it, haphazardly, in the general direction of Agent Jayden, barely watching to see where it landed before he raced for the window, yanked it open, and leapt right onto the fire escape.

" _Shit!_ " The ash tray had struck the unsuspecting Norman directly on the ankle with a muffled clunk. The agent staggered, his centre of balance thrown off track. Donahue spared him a instant of her time. She placed a hand on his upper arm, but, upon seeing that his injury was minor, hurled herself instead in quick pursuit after their fleeing lead.

Melissa was immediately hit by a wall of sound. She scrambled inelegantly out of the window frame and onto a rickety steel skeleton, distinctly cold to the touch, to be met with the sound of wheels and car horns and the wind rushing past her ears, which had all been so deficient previously.

Glancing below her, she could see her quarry through the metal slits. The apartment was on the third floor, and already Abbot had nearly made it to the ground. She tore down the stairs. Floor to floor, step by step by step, spinning around when she encountered the next platform, sometimes jumping a few stairs, metallic rattles chiming out at her feet.  _Come on, come on, he can't get away! Your only lead!_ Her FBI training was being called unpleasantly to mind.

At the base level, Donahue hit the ground running. She had glimpsed Abbot ducking down an alley, but that had been seconds before. Turning the corner into the dim passage, the agent found it deserted. She sprinted along its length, emerging on the opposite side to an even wider street with multiple offshoots to smaller roads, other alleyways, and shops: so many places to hide. There was no trace of a dark-haired man. Agent Donahue swore loudly. She had to bend over to catch her breath.

In the apartment, Jayden had lowered himself back onto the sofa. A bass grumble of expletives was tumbling from his mouth as naturally as rain. He felt his ankle, prodding the swelling with his fingertips.  _Why the fuck is it that the most superficial wounds hurt the most?_ The irritation which he had tried somewhat fruitlessly to curb earlier in the day was returning in full force, throbbing and tingling through his leg, accompanied by a pounding headache. Before he could stop himself - before he could care, even - he reached into his pocket and extracted a vial of aching cerulean.

Up, up. The tube locked in his tremulous fingers like it was always meant to be. He lifted it to his nose and inhaled, a profound breath, striking through the very edges of his skull, like aquamarine flooding the unfathomable depths of a black cavern.

The apartment was now very still. It had been so noisy before.

The agent lay back until he was sprawled on the couch, staring at the ceiling. Every nerve was awake, nudging him, reminding him of each hair upon his body and all the places where his skin was in contact with impressionable fabric. He could almost feel his pupils contract. His ankle was all but forgotten. He let out a dwindling breath and closed his eyes, simply listening to the sound of a part of his soul drifting away.

Donahue walked with furrowed eyebrows back up the fire escape. When she ducked once again through the window, she initially thought that she had entered the wrong apartment.  _Where's Norman?_ A feeble movement caught her eye and she dashed forwards, only to be greeted with the bizarre sight of Agent Jayden collapsed on his back on the sofa.  _Shit, he's not actually hurt is he_? And yet he was smiling: he was happier than she had ever seen him. His fingers were just retracting from his jacket pocket.

"Norman?" Her voice was of a higher pitch than she would have liked to admit.

He sat up unhurriedly, resting his arms on his knees. His eyes had a sort of glassy quality which emphasised the overwhelming blue residing there. "Christ, I thought you said he wasn't dangerous." He grinned as he gestured towards his ankle.

Melissa was dazed. "No, he's… he's just scared." She sat down too, assembling her thoughts. "He's not running the heroin operation, that's for sure. He's been forced into doing some dirty work and someone really dangerous has threatened him, or, or blackmailed him, and now he's being implicated in a serious drug case. He's terrified."  _What could make him so afraid that he would desert his own home?_

Jayden nodded. "He got away." The agent wasn't even angry. In fact, to Donahue's ear he sounded quite calm about the whole thing.

But the woman was less forgiving. "Shit, I'm sorry. I messed up. He was too fast." She sighed and rubbed at her temples. Norman, seated quietly beside her, gazed at her with something akin to awe. Her auburn hair was tousled and some of it was sticking to the side of her face with sweat. The running had caused her to flush with a delicate afterglow. Her lips were parted as she took fragile breaths, drawing in air, which, like everything else, could not escape her charm. She was full to the brim with the sweet essence of life; it flowed through her veins and poured the honey into her eyes, fashioning a creature of pure light, an intoxication so delectable that he marvelled anyone could resist.

Donahue stood up out of the blue, and Norman, in a schoolchild yearning to be close to her, followed suit. He realised the foolishness of this sudden act as his foot crumpled beneath him, forcing him to fall straight back onto the settee.

"Oh, here, let me help you." Melissa bent to his level and supported his frame with her arm around his shoulder. As her skin grazed his, and then her warmth seeped into his flesh, an unwanted flush came over her cheeks. They moved at a slow pace; slow, but together. Jayden kept the weight off his right foot and in an ungainly fashion they headed for the door.

"Wait," said Norman. As the Triptocaine wore off, he was remembering to be problematic. "I should search the apartment. There could be clues to his employer."

"Norman, it's getting late, and you're hurt. The clues will still be here another day. Come on." How could he resist a voice of liquid nectar?

Although the pain was returning to the young man in jarring jabs and pokes to his ankle, the woman was doing an excellent job of cleansing the thought of it from his mind. His brain kept looping back to the feeling of her palm on his shoulder, and her waist pressed next to his own, like a broken record stuck on the particularly idyllic bridge of a song.

Outside, darkness had fallen. Streetlights were beginning to stir to the melodies of roosting birds in a nearby park. As Donahue lead her partner to the car, she looked to the heavens and saw not an inch of sky. The clouds were snarling in a barely-audible menace.

Norman gave the keys to Melissa. She unlocked the doors. Before he could clamber into the front seat, she interrupted him. "Nope, I'm driving." He protested lamely but it was easy enough to steer him to the other side of the Ford and push him in.

"It's only bruised -"

His limp determination made her want to smile. "Norman, just let me drive you home, okay?" The woman walked round to the driver's seat with so much fluidity that he thought she might be mocking him.

This time Melissa remained quiet for the majority of the journey, allowing Jayden to direct her accordingly. He also took the opportunity to call Headquarters and inform them of the whereabouts of Christopher Abbot's dwelling. A request was logged to have a police officer stationed outside the apartment block, remaining on the alert should their escapee choose to return to his home.

Their progress through D.C. was slowed by the tail-end of the day's commuters jostling for space on the road, but in less than half an hour they had reached Norman's residence. He too rented out an apartment in a block of flats, albeit a much more hygienic and hospitable one.

"Déjà vu," called the young woman as she got out of the car.

They stumbled into his apartment with self-conscious smiles. Jayden felt a lurch as he recalled: he had done almost the exact same thing only three days ago with a very different type of girl. As he clung to her side he wondered if he would ever be able to go back to the way things were.

The apartment was on the seventeenth floor and overlooked a grand portion of the metropolis, which was currently illuminated by the neon spark of a thousand city lights. To Norman, a good view was far more important than the size or condition of a flat.  _Maybe that's why I like ARI so much._  The front door opened onto the living room, with other doors leading to the kitchen and bedroom respectively. The place wasn't exactly roomy, but that suited Jayden just fine. He probably spent more time at work than at home, anyway. His décor looked like it had come straight out of a catalogue, mainly because it had: he was no good at furbishing or accessorising, so he'd picked an economical furniture collection he'd liked and ordered the whole set. It was all chrome and minimalist colours, a little futuristic for Melissa's liking.

The only thing that really stood out was his grand piano. Like a great black mountain it rose out of the terrain of the room, standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, gleaming in the way that only a well-loved piano can. Donahue dreaded to think how much it must have cost.

By contrast, the rest of the apartment was cluttered and disorganised. A bookshelf against the wall was stuffed with books on criminology, psychology, history, and great works of literature, and several binders full of newspaper cuttings, and old scraps of paper; some shirts lay on an armchair in the corner; a quick look into the kitchen revealed plates piled up by the sink. It was easy to see where Norman's priorities lay. The piano was polished to perfection but the television cowered under a layer of dust.

Melissa let down her partner onto the sofa. She made to sit, then thought better of it. "Do you want a drink? I could fix us something…"

Jayden raised his eyebrows. "Sure. There's some Chardonnay in the fridge, if you don't mind."

By the time the woman had found the wine bottle, poured two glasses, and returned to the living room, the TV was on and CNN was delivering its breathless relay of the latest headlines. She handed Norman the tall wineglass and then stared at the vacant space on the sofa. Her colleague turned his head to regard her, and suddenly she found herself sitting down beside him.

"Thank you," he said. His fragile smile looked washed out in the all-encompassing virtual phosphorescence emitted from the television set. The news was babbling faintly to itself in the background. Melissa gulped and took a sip of the sparkling white wine. The cityscape to their left provided a dreamlike urban backdrop of yellow lights, softly out of focus.

As she raised her eyes, catching in their depths the dazzling reflections of television and city alike, she set her sights on Norman Jayden. He was looking past her. His face was a little tired, a little fatigued, hatched by memories of sorrow and joy. Brown hair sat neatly but struggled for freedom along the hairline itself, and eyebrows too rebelled as best they could. At the moment they were vaguely crumpled, like he was endeavouring to solve an exceptionally difficult mathematical equation. A shadow of facial growth darkened his chin. And then of course there was the enigmatic scar, whispering secrets just longing to be uncovered, to be listened to. Donahue felt an urge to rectify the day's shortcomings:  _her_ shortcomings.

"I'm really sorry about today. About letting Abbot go. I know we're pretty much back to square one now, and it's my fault. I'm going to work harder, I swear. We're going to solve this case."

"Melissa. You're not really going to blame yourself, are you?"

She stared at her wineglass.

"If anything, hell, it's my fault for getting hit by that goddamn ash tray. I mean, jeez, what an injury. I'll be a laughing stock if anyone finds out about it." He smiled and looked her squarely in the eye. "So you gotta promise not to tell anyone, alright? And I mean  _nobody_ , this can't be allowed to damage my valuable reputation."

The woman smiled in return, grateful for his levity. "It's a deal."

By the light of the television they sat for some while longer, their bodies radiating with a shared warmth. They were close enough that a small misjudged movement could cause direct contact, but neither seemed willing to initiate such an encounter. The partners drunk their Chardonnay and the taste of lemon and vanilla filled their heads. Joking comments were directed at the news presenters; Melissa eventually kicked off her shoes and curled her feet underneath her; and through the course of the evening both agents at one time or another realised  _this is comfortable. This is natural._

When CNN announced it was 9 pm, Donahue stretched her arms above her head and stood up. "I really should be leaving."

"Are you okay getting back home?"

"Yeah, I'll take a taxi."

"Wait, wait, let me escort you to the door." Norman rose to his feet and found that he could limp about with only minimal indignity. Pleasure and wine had dulled the hammering in his ankle to very tolerable levels.

Melissa walked behind him vigilantly. "Are you feeling better?"

"Oh sure, I'm right as rain. I've been far more wounded than this in my time, let me assure you." Jayden found a sarcastic snigger at the back of his throat as he was reminded of countless instances when his life had been in direct danger.  _Where to begin? Nearly being flattened to a pulp by a car crusher, or the glasses that make me bleed through my eyes?_

He leant himself against the wall and opened the door. Now that there was a physical gateway close at hand whose only purpose was to draw them apart, both Norman and Melissa were at a loss for what to say.

The woman tried first. "Thank you, Norman. Thanks for the wine." A fleeting smile managed to break across her features, then was gone.

Those lips and teeth were Jayden's entire word for a dizzying second.  _Oh God, it's not fair…_ She was going to leave him now, and who knew when she'd be back again. She would walk out of the apartment, out of the building, and sooner or later straight out of Washington, and forget all about the broken agent who had nothing to offer but heartache and empty promises. He couldn't bear to imagine letting such unfathomable beauty slip right though his fingers.  _Why should I have to give you up?_

"Melissa," he murmured.

He took an unsteady pace forward until his face hovered close to hers. She was less than an inch shorter than him, giving him an unparalleled glimpse into sunshine eyes. Norman thought she might back off, but instead she held her own, gazing back at him with a soothing confidence. He could pick out each eyelash and even the tiny pores across her cheeks.

_I've never wanted anything as much as I want this._

Expert hands came up to meet her waist. He dipped his head and caught her lips in his own. She tasted of pure ambrosia, sweet and life-giving, and as the divine aroma simultaneously bewitched his mouth and nose he was burning to deepen the kiss; but he wanted to be gentle;  _I owe her that_ ; but inside him was stirring a beast, and now that flesh had met flaming flesh it had broken free of earthly restraints and drove her into the wall, craving her body with bestial intensity.

She made a guttural noise as her back met forcefully with solid concrete. Every place that she touched him - arm, neck, chest - was left with a cruel burn as potent as the rays of the sun. Struggling to control her reeling mind, she discovered herself automatically responding to his passion. She returned his desire with a lust of her own, gliding her tongue into his mouth, gripping his shoulders. His smell, of musk and the lingering vanilla tones of the wine, enclosed around her irrepressibly.

Her fluttering eyes tickled the skin of his cheek. He held the back of her head in his palm, pulling her closer, his other hand digging into the supple tissue of her upper arm, needing to devour her whole. Now she struggled to break her mouth free: once their lips were torn apart she pressed herself to his torso as she inhaled erratically, heartbeat speeding away into the horizon.

Although his arms were wrapped around her shoulders and the sense of safety was astounding, she knew in the pit of her gut that she had to escape. Melissa dislodged their intertwined bodies. Norman rested an arm against the wall and gasped with difficulty, overcome by confusion, unable to speak.

"I'm sorry," said the young woman in an undertone, slipping through the door.

She ran for the elevator before he could follow her. She knew it was unfair, and malicious, but there was no other way. As she reached the ground floor and called for a taxi her head was spinning.  _What have you got yourself into now? Trouble seems to chase you, doesn't it, Melissa? Oh God, oh God… of all the people in the Bureau, in Washington, in the world, you had to want him. Have you completely forgotten why you were transferred here? Does your job mean nothing to you? Have you lost your dignity?_

Soon she was stepping inside her ride. Eagerly the taxi sped away into the artificial haze, bearing its distressed cargo, until she disappeared as just another yellow light twinkling along with countless others against the endless vista of capital city.


	7. Depression

Saturday

3:20 pm

.

"ARI comment: Christopher Abbot's current place of residence is 1010 Massachusetts Avenue Northwest."

Agent Jayden stood in the middle of an empty apartment hall, facing a door painted a displeasingly off-white hue. Specifically, it was a front door, which lead to Mr Abbot's apartment. Norman took a momentary look up and down the corridor. Leaning forwards, he turned the door handle and felt the mechanism give way under his fingers. The door squeaked open: it was unlocked, carelessly abandoned, just as it had been left the day before.

The young man could tell from first glance that the police officer posted by the exterior of the building had been correct in his observations. Abbot had not yet returned to the flat. Everything lay in suspension, frozen where it had been put to rest less than 24 hours earlier, as if the room had hardly dared to breathe in the intervening time; the black ash tray remained upside-down on the floor, its contents deposited in an unceremonial mess, and the window was still wide open.

"The apartment appears have been untouched since approximately 7 pm yesterday. Abbot has temporarily deserted the premises."

As today's date flashed in the corner of ARI's interface, Norman couldn't help but notice that it was a Saturday. He didn't need to be here on a Saturday. The Bureau didn't generally expect its agents to work at weekends, unless their current case was truly a matter of life and death: in other words, Origami Killer situations.  _And yet here I am._ He closed the door and crossed the room to shut the window.

The velvet wind caressed his features and then was gone as the glass pane was driven forcibly down.

Turning back to face the apartment, he brought a gloved hand up to his omniscient black glasses. It had rained the previous night, and Norman was reminded of this as he shifted the lenses on the bridge of his nose, perceiving a moist, damp odour which now lingered, able to pass through walls and floors alike. The drizzle had not lasted long - merely spattering the unresponsive buildings of Washington D.C. - leaving the dense veil of clouds pressing down on the city just as portentously as before, or perhaps even more so. It was a premonition of what was to come.

Jayden clenched and released his palm, observing the futuristic teal pulsation as it swept over the surrounding area and then dispersed harmlessly into the air. Without a moment's delay several virtual labels materialised, spinning above specific marked points, calling for his attention.

The first of these indicators was by the window, displaying the triple discovery of Abbot, Norman, and Melissa's fingerprints all muddled upon the transparent surface. Another label pointed out Christoper Abbot's prints on the ash tray, and also suggested that a minute fracture in the material was indicative of a high-speed impact with another object.  _Tell me something I don't know._ Agent Jayden peered down at his right ankle. The bruised joint had been determined to disrupt his sleep the night before, but today it seemed better behaved. It had ceased to ache and only twinged when he stepped hard on it. He was able to walk now with no more than a slight limp.

Norman moved past the revolving markers quickly. There were lots of ARI tags in the small space, and he was aware that the majority of these would just identify Abbot's own prevalent set of fingerprints. Even so, he browsed each one briefly in turn.  _There's no way in hell I'm missing a single piece of potential evidence._

Ever since their only lead had wriggled free from their grip yesterday, the agent knew that things were rapidly spinning out of control; he had to take command of the situation. He had sworn that, the following day, he would return to Abbot's apartment on Massachusetts Avenue to acquire something,  _anything_ , allowing them to continue the investigation.

Jayden wanted to be angry with Agent Donahue for losing Abbot. He really, really wanted to be livid, to have something to direct towards her that might be more publicly acceptable than what he actually felt.

But he couldn't be angry - not when she had been the one researching, planning, enquiring, moving the case forward and still finding time to drag him along whilst he moped about with his own feeble concerns. He was more ashamed than anything.  _Time to put things right._ And other, much more potent incidents were also influencing his emotions.

He remembered… warm, resplendent heat. A saccharine fragrance infiltrating to his very core. Sinuous skin pressing against him and extraordinarily returning his hunger.

Melissa had left his apartment the evening before like a passing daydream, elevating and elusive. It had taken only minutes for Jayden to realise what a colossal, unrectifiable mistake he'd made. He had stared, bewildered, into the distance, his mouth gaping like a fish.  _Did that just happen?_ Made reckless and lusty by wine he had disregarded the walls he had toiled to build up, surrendered to the churning in his chest, and in the process sacrificed all the blossoming amity between the two of them. And for what - a  _kiss_?  _A single stupid, rushed, inappropriate, incomprehensible kiss._ Any respect she might have held for him would be stolen away into the night, just as she herself had been. No wonder she ran away in disgust. He'd reached up to the golden Tree of Life and greedily torn down the fruit ripening there, shining and gilded, and feasted upon it until the sugary nectar ran all down his jaw. He had ruined everything.

Norman's thoughts were re-established in the present as ARI detected yet another series of fingerprints, belonging to Christopher Abbot, upon a bookshelf constructed from cheap laminate timber. He forced himself from the pool of his self-pity long enough to inspect the piece of furniture, which was wedged in a corner of the room just to the side of the television. The data, as expected, told him nothing new.

Imparting a cursory glace over the books in the shelves, Jayden saw mostly hardbacks on travel and history.  _Strange._ Abbot was certainly more than your typical garden variety delinquent.

A yawn escaped the man's lips as he passed into the kitchen. Emitting another electromagnetic halo to scan the room, he saw that although it was an orderly space, with groceries lodged in the fridge and dry supplies in cupboards, ARI had picked up on tiny food spills on the counters and floor. A further circular pointer flagged a crumpled shopping list by the microwave. He even checked the trash can, but it had obviously been emptied not long before. Looking over the information, he slipped further into dull vacancy: none of it was any use.

_When did it all go wrong?_ It had been the visit to Kellen - the letter from Raine - the world had unhinged itself then, and trapped him in a lethargic rut.  _No, look further. You know there's more._ Norman tried to think back. As a young FBI profiler he had been unstoppable and unmatched, full to bursting with a zeal that almost bordered on obsession. He felt fulfilled by the work he did.  _God, I really believed I was making the world a better place._ Every day he persevered it had become safer in his mind's eye, like humanity as a whole was taking small tentative steps into the light.

But of course he had been a young man then, still in his twenties. Now, at age thirty-three, Norman had already passed his prime, with all the rashness of a person who does not realise what they are leaving behind. He was no longer agile and nimble: that boyish identity had moulded into something subtly different, more jaded, as he'd shed the husk of his youth.

He was keenly aware that something had gone wrong somewhere. Maybe it was just the anguish of growing older, of watching a healthy body decay so gradually that it was barely noticeable, or scraping so close to death so many times that he couldn't help recognising his own brittle mortality. Maybe a loss of virtue and naïvety was an experience everyone had to trudge through during the long middle years; maybe it was these things which had caused the earth to exhaust its shine. Or perhaps it was something more.

It had all started, the agent grasped, with the soulless blue leaching into his life. Rain is often said to be blue but really, Norman knew it was grey and pitiless. ARI was imitation blue - a synthetic fraud of a colour composed from wavelengths and nanobytes. And Triptocaine was so intensely cobalt that the agent always kept a vial securely tucked in his pocket.

He was losing his way. As time marched ceaselessly on, he was no longer the prodigious profiler of yesteryear. The truth was becoming more concealed to him: cases he might have solved with ease a few years ago now required more brainpower, more time, more of his _self_. He almost felt drained by the amount of emotional exertion his job was beginning to demand.

The Origami Killer investigation was a cautionary distress signal that he had failed to heed. It had been over two months ago now, with plenty of time for reflection, and yet he was still incapable of seeing the light. It was likely that he couldn't even face thinking upon what had occurred.

Although dangerous enough by itself, Jayden's thoughtless overindulgence of both ARI and Tripto had amplified the risks involved in that volatile case a hundredfold.  _But fuck, I needed them!_ How else could he have kept himself driving single-mindedly on through the wind and the rain and the police bullshit and the corpses everywhere he looked?

Philadelphia was a hellhole for Norman. He never wanted to return to that infernal place. More than once he had been sure it was finally over; that his luck had at last run out; that he would die a lonely, anonymous agent grieved by no one, to be remembered only by frosty FBI annals; and yet some spark of fortune had remained, for he had been snatched from the beckoning maw of the abyss every single time.

Norman had captured the killer. He wasn't even sure how it happened, so intoxicated as he was with a cocktail of drugs and virtual reality - how by some astounding chance everything had come together smoothly at the last moment. The profiler had been dubbed a goddamn  _hero_. There'd been glitzy interviews and a phoney fifteen minutes of fame. But it was a hollow victory,  _such a cold void victory._ A little boy had been rescued from a fate worse than death, drowning and choking and knowing he was suffering because his father didn't love him enough, only for the same self-sacrificing father to die at the hands of his kidnapper.  _That fucking bastard_. It still made Jayden want to punch things: the sheer vicious, excessive injustice.  _No kid deserves that._ And after the tabloids had lost interest and packed their bags he was still left thinking, was any of it worthwhile? Did it matter that Shaun's life had been spared now that it would be forever be marred by the murder of his father? It was as though in the end, Norman had been incapable of saving either of them.

_More fucking mistakes._

The young man tried to convince himself he'd done the best that could be expected, but his pleading words fell on deaf ears. It was his fault. Everything was always his fault.

What was the answer? What had caused his descent from heaven? Norman was lost. There were clues: there were always clues. But he couldn't accept them.

_The pieces are all lined up in front of you. Why won't you connect the links?_

_No. Occam's razor isn't always right. Life is far more fucking complicated than that._

He was spiralling perpetually downward. It didn't matter how fast or slow he went, if he moved at the speed of light or if he practically froze his progress, because he would get there one day and he knew his destination could never change. So he took more Tripto when it cried to him, and he was ironically lackadaisical about using ARI, in spite of everything permanently grappling for a branch to cling to or a ledge to break his ungodly fall.

_My world shattered when I opened the forbidden box and took the glasses and the tube. They're dragging me to my grave and my doom and I won't see it - I won't stop it - I'm so far down I've forgotten the light of the sun, I know only shadows - they've clawed under my skin too tightly - they're erasing my mind -_

Without warning, the agent found himself on the verge of the apartment's single bedroom. It was a sparse and constricted room, scarcely big enough to move around in. ARI hadn't unearthed anything even remotely relevant in the living room or kitchen.

A single bed was aligned parallel to the window. Gauzy drapes fluttered before the pane, the result of some otherwise undetectable draught, their placid motions being the only movement in the entire forsaken flat. The trivial disturbance perturbed Norman in some intuitive way. He sent out another magnetic pulsation from his glove, hunting for an indication; an indication as to whom Abbot had been duped into assisting at the docks, or to where he had now fled. Anything would do - a note, a parking ticket, a receipt.

But there was nothing.  _Jesus Christ… nothing, nothing! Why is this place so fucking clean?_ He dashed impulsively past the bed to a closet, and flinging it open he ransacked the shirts and trousers hung inside until they were piled in a heap on the floor, but located only weak remnants of DNA in the form of sweat upon nylon collars.

His job was to divulge the shade, to find the grime which was inexorably buried underneath everyone's fingernails no matter how hard they scrubbed, but here there was  _nothing to find_. In the bedside drawers: naught except perhaps the odd pen. In the bathroom, only a razor and a toothbrush. More fingerprints. There was no sign of bills, birth certificates, or anything a normal person might hoard away somewhere. Norman had never seen a lawbreaker's home so meticulously tidy. And it still managed to goad him, because there was an essence of uncleanliness pervading under the soap and water; with the nicotine stained walls, the lurking hint of cigarette smoke, and the mundane, vaguely musty furniture. The apartment recalled a hotel suite, scoured harshly and made to appear sterile, but fundamentally unable to shake an eternal sense of pollution.

Whatever this man's secrets were, they weren't here.

The agent had had enough _. I've searched the entire goddamn place. I've done my part._ That was the conclusion - Abbot had gone for good, and all he could do now was wait and pray the runaway would return to Massachusetts Avenue. Yet again their investigation had run dry, like a river parched by midday heat.

"Well, fuck," said Norman wearily as he traipsed back to the front door. He was too disheartened to return to the office today. Maybe at some point during the past few days he'd missed some evidence, which seemed likely taking into account his unruly state of mind; or the case needed to be looked at from a different perspective which hadn't occurred to him thus far; either way, at present it was time to go home. The young man begrudgingly conceded that there was nothing more he could do without first getting a good night's rest and attempting to clarify his brain. He shut the apartment door as he departed.

Jayden left the building and made it to his car, although his legs felt like concrete beneath him. It was only 4 o'clock but the thunderhead heavens were smothering the city, enforcing a sadistic gloom so absolute that he almost believed nightfall had erroneously occurred whilst he had been indoors. The streetlights had already turned on: they fashioned regular spherical puddles of bronze in the dingy environment, like pallid replications of the real sun.

He drove home. He tried not to acknowledge the seething vial of narcotic in his jacket pocket. He parked his car outside the block of flats and made his way inside, shuffling, eyes to the ground. He just wanted to lie down and drink himself to sleep but it seemed fate had other things in store for him. Approaching his studio apartment door, his eyes trained onto a square lump positioned almost in the doorway.

Norman cleared his throat. He looked around. He knelt down for the article, and holding it in the crook of his arm as he retrieved his keys, realised it was a package parcelled in cheap brown wrapping paper. Withdrawing into the dusky refuge of his home, the door was shut and the lights turned on glaringly.

The keys were thrown with lax concern, and they clattered upon collision with a glass tabletop. Jayden was occupied with running eyes and hands all over the solid bundle.

His name was printed on one side, in typewriter lettering, but apart from that he could distinguish no other markings. There was no return address. It was a small item, perhaps with adequate dimensions for a thick, slightly deformed book. Norman knew enough about suspicious mail to be wary.  _Should I open this?_ That's when he saw it - the single word  _Raine_ , consigned to the very bottom corner.

The young man experienced a fright so great that it was akin to the life being knocked straight out of him, the dread of which manifested itself as a convulsion in his abdomen.  _Not more - not more!_ For more than a day he had been living as an incomplete being, withering under the burden of his self-imposed propaganda, and now the source of his disquiet, his aching deficiency, had found its second coming. It was like the omen of a vile and despicable god he had never asked to worship.

Lithe, long fingers were tearing at the brown covering before he had made the conscious decision to open the package. The casing melted away from its contents and fell to the floor.

_No… you were supposed to be a lie. This can't be happening._

Exposed was a compact black box, lightweight, with a matte finish, which Norman correctly identified as a low-cost portable DVD player, the type that could be purchased for 50 dollars or less. A note was sellotaped to the electrical gadget and also composed in the distinctive font common to typewriters.

_Norman._

_I promised to contact you a second time, and now you will see that I have delivered on my oath. Forgive me for being so intrusive as to present this piece of communication to your home - however, with it being a weekend, I felt it more prudent to transport my offering directly to your apartment._

_It is my sincere wish that enough time has passed since my last letter to allow you ample consideration of the accusations I have raised. Trust me that the more you think on the things I have said, and certainly once you have seen my proof, the more you will come to understand their validity. I do not envy you, for you must now accept a reality far more appalling than you can ever have conceived; but nevertheless I believe you will have the strength to prevail._

_Before you view what I wish you to view, I have these words: I hope you will not loathe me for being the bearer of bad news. The evidence I have to show is critical, of utmost consequence, but it tells no pleasant truths. I urge you to watch with discretion and stoicism. Once again, ensure that the only eyes to observe the following are yours._

_Enclosed is a DVD player, which you have no doubt already uncovered. The unit is fully charged and headphones are not required. Turn on the device and press the play button, and the inserted DVD should begin immediately._

_Keep in mind what I have stated previously, about not only the nature of ARI and Triptocaine but also the danger we are both entailed in. Please shred, burn, or otherwise destroy the disc and this note once you have studied them._

_I will be in touch again._

_\- Raine_

Shuddering, quavering, he tried to curb the seismic aftershocks in his chest. As he tussled between logic and sensation he reached up to the object, flipping open the top so that the undersized screen was visible; upon finding the power switch he flicked it into the on position. The monitor whirred to itself for a moment. He counted the seconds neurotically under his breath, his eyes sodden marshes capable of drowning a man, and once he reached seven the DVD had begun playing.

Jayden leaned forwards. On the display were two middle-aged men, a little way from the camera: a glossy wooden plane filled the bottom half of the screen as if whatever was filming them had been placed on a tabletop. A strip of glass to one side implied a translucent article, perhaps a water pitcher, serving as camouflage. It became apparent that the men were in some sort of unoccupied conference area. One of the pair had only just entered the room, for he was seating himself in an office chair as the disc commenced. A standard video recorder tag at the bottom classified the date as 23rd January 2011, roughly one year in the past.

"- be anyone to interrupt us," said the man to the right. Norman peered closer as he tried to make out his facial features.

The second man now spoke up as he tightened his tie with stout hands. The audio quality was a little bleary but the booming, resonant voice sounded recognisable. "Excellent. You brought the prototype?"

A nod was all that was needed as confirmation. The first man extracted something from outside the camera's scope, and as he turned to show it to his associate his face aligned almost directly with the lens.  _Oh my God! I know you!_ Jayden could make out a thin and taut visage, pursed lips, and owlish glasses. It was a grainy Sebastian Hyde, known to most at the FBI as Executive Assistant Director Hyde, head of the Bureau's Science and Technology Branch.

"This is model number 2.3," said the director. He was holding a pair of sunglasses in his hands, gripping them as someone might handle an infant or a precious stone. They were hefty and, Norman imagined, cumbersome to wear. "Still quite large, but we're decreasing the size all the time. The hope is that within a few months they'll be small enough to equip comfortably."

The man on the left side shifted and stretched his hand outwards to take hold of the glasses. Hyde let go of them reluctantly. Muttering inaudibly, the larger man turned the piece of equipment round as he scrutinised it, taking in all the protrusions and irregularities associated with raw technology, allowing the camera to glimpse the inscribed letters of the all too familiar acronym ARI. The young agent, his nose inching closer and closer to the screen, felt a lead ballast settle inside him.

Norman had worked out the identity of the second man. He was none other than Gregory Welles, Executive Assistant Director for the Human Resources Branch of the FBI. A well-built gentleman who ruled over his department with force and equality, he was determined to push the agency's employees to the very brink of breakdown but equally quick to reward them for their altruistic efforts.

_Two of the Bureau's Executive Assistant Directors talking to each other?_ It was hardly a rare occurrence, but the meeting chilled Norman to the core.

Welles was speaking now, and his sonorous voice echoed through the DVD player's inbuilt speakers. "Very good. And the virtual capabilities?"

"They're coming along superbly. With the correct processing power we can create a visual ambience of close to 100 megapixels at one pixel per arc minute. Noises are easier; at the moment we're amassing a library of high-quality soundbytes. We're using a combination of augmented and virtual reality as is appropriate, to synthesise both unreal objects interacting in a real environment and -"

"Keep it simple Hyde, you know I don't understand half the hell of what you're saying."

The bespectacled man smirked and then slanted nearer to the centre of the table. "We're getting close to recreating the actual visual and aural aptitude of the human brain."

His colleague took a second to digest this information. "So eventually, it'll be impossible to distinguish between the real world and the world in the glasses?"

"Theoretically, yes: eventually we should reach a plateau where ARI's reality is just as detailed as our own."

Gregory Welles let out a low whistle. "And these things will have access the Bureau's database?"

"The function is being built in as we speak. Agents will have the power to retrieve almost all of the main intelligence files, and of course, new data is being added every day. Anything that might be relevant to them will be available at their fingertips. Combined with the ability to scan crime scene areas, we estimate efficiency in the FBI could be improved by up to seventy percent."

"How are the physical results proceeding? How addictive are the devices?"

"Early reports are good," said Hyde. "Side-effects appear to include migraines, nervous tics, nosebleeds, fatigue. We're expecting hallucinations to surface soon. The supernatural nature of the virtual reality means users are eager to continue using."

"And, and - the drug?"

Hyde nodded, evidently understanding the enquiry. "The drug is a narcotic capable of reducing pain levels and completely nullifying the negative effects of ARI. We've had nothing but successful outcomes from the tests. Just as planned, severe withdrawal symptoms also emerge if the substance is not consumed regularly."

"So they'll need to keep using both the glasses and the drug to remain healthy."

"Yes, exactly."

This seemed to greatly please Welles. He smiled, made a noise as if he was at a loss of whether to chuckle or to speak, and placed the sombre black glasses on the table so that they happened to face towards the camera, staring down the lens, boring into Jayden's soul.

Hyde laughed. It was a throaty, hoarse sound. "It's finally happening, Gregory. I think your army of superagents is fast becoming a likelihood."

"I want to start distributing as soon as possible." Welles was brimming with fervour. "How fast do you think you can -"

The video cut out sharply. As the image faded and that reverberating voice ebbed away, the monitor was restored to a film of shallow onyx, and all Agent Jayden could see was the ghost of his own wide-eyed reflection.

_Are you convinced now, Norman? Is that proof enough for you?_

His first reflex was to scuffle in his pocket for his glasses. A physical checklist was taking place in his mind, although he was ignorant to it:  _heart palpitations, sweating brow, deteriorating field of vision_ … He had the impression he might be yammering nonsensically to himself.

What was he thinking? Jayden didn't know any better than a random stranger adrift and destitute on the street might.

He fought just to place the glasses on his face. His fingers were shaped from oil; they were slippery, oozing in unwanted directions like those of an uncoordinated child. The liquid seemed to emanate from his very pores. His glove was even harder to arrange, in the way that it's difficult to pour reluctant tar into a mould.

Reawakening. The lenses were in position. He opened his overawed eyes and there it was again, all of it, saffron and flaxen -  _oh God, I've missed you. Please don't ever leave me again._ He strained his head back just to remember all the specifics, all the little complexities he'd forgotten. Crisp leaves and the smell of waning life. He'd been getting sick of the sight of his apartment, anyway.  _Why did I forget you?_  He thought it had only been a day or so, but that was too long. Like a prodigal son he was returning to his origins, his place of peace, a true place. The jaundiced trees bent over him in an arching embrace. As he stood unmoving the autumnal woodland unfolded around him, stretching on to the far distance until it weakened to a fuzzy mass of scenery and droning birds, until he could perceive or dream no more. He didn't know which.

But something had altered. His fabricated home was still beautiful, but that splendour wasn't as he remembered it. It was a disgusting perilous beauty, too bright, too flawless, ridiculing his darkness. The sun thawed his wintry skin and he itched where its rays made contact. Lethal branches began to whip about, the leaves created anarchy, as a gale flayed through his only sanctuary.

_Nothing's the same. Everything's changing. Everything's changing, everything is false, how am I supposed to stay afloat?_

He flung off the glasses and they dropped to the blanketed foliage below. The shadowy forest was still present, rudely invading his senses. Nowadays it never left him that easily.

Norman sniffed and then brought a hand to his nose. The fingers came back warm and red. He started to breathe fitfully, rubbing his hand futilely underneath his nostrils until it was all smeared with blood, endeavouring to navigate through his persistent nightmare.  _I just need more air. If I have air, it will go away._ He swayed into a tree which might have been a doorway. Now his palms were his guide, feeling along the walls while bloodshot eyes saw only in sepia and flicked around everywhere, anywhere, as useless as those of a blind man.

Some time passed in pandemonium. When the mirage had cleared, and his head returned to his shoulders, Norman Jayden found himself in his small lavatory, clinging to the sink for dear life. The bathroom mirror reflected a creature caked in blood and labouring just to inhale. He noticed a lone, humiliated tear drying on the side of his face.

The young man washed his lips and nose, dousing glacial water on the floor and the wall tiles in his frenzy. Droplets sprayed liberally onto the mirror, distorting his likeness. As he spat the metallic taste from his mouth threads of maroon defiled the crystalline purity of the basin water.

Then he took a moment to squint at his warped duplicate.

A single thought remained in the silence after the storm:  _I have to find them. I have to find the people who brought the twilight into my life._

In fifteen minutes he was sat in his car for a third time that day. Norman could have been mistaken for a madman who had somehow got his hands upon a working vehicle; a tint of crimson remained in his eye, his body juddered at intervals, and his hair was still wet, sticking up in odd places. His loaded gun lay like a promise on the seat beside him.

_So Executive Assistant Directors Welles and Hyde have been planning this pretty picnic for a while now, huh? And God knows how many other officials. Jesus fucking Christ, fucking goddamned hypocrites. What gives them the right to fuck up a person's life? What the fuck happened to Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity, huh? I should - I oughta… What do they deserve? They deserve fucking fire and brimstone, that's what._

He didn't know where Hyde lived, or where Welles lived. But in D.C. a lot of large, stately houses were located at Kalorama Heights. It was a residential area for the big shots, the businessmen and the senators. This was where he drove at breakneck speed.

It had begun to rain. The cataclysmic moment that had threatened for so long had finally arrived. Fat, bitter beads of rainwater bombarded rooftops and windows and Jayden's windscreen until the wipers dashed them furiously away. A premature night had descended upon the city as cumulonimbus clouds rolled in and families sheltered themselves in their homes. Trees along the side of the road thrashed this way and that whilst a great tempest howled along the streets. There were few cars on the road; as such thankfully few were at risk from Norman's hazardous swerving. Racing into Kalorama Heights, he braked hard, sending a spray of water into the air, and parked his Ford on the curb.

The agent exited the car. He was impervious to the rain, although it ran down his shoulders and drenched his suit. The grandiose manors which overwhelmed the district fell under his examination even as drops ran all the way from his forehead to his chin, huddling on his eyelashes, letting out a thunderous din as they collectively hit the sodden ground.

He paced up and down the street, listening to the squelching of his ruined shoes.

Time passed like a kaleidoscope of sensation. There was so much - the hissing of the chilled rain as it flew past his ears, frost-bound shards driving through flesh, blood and rain mixed on his tongue. Pain, so much red angry pain, the memory of which he could still feel coated over his fingers.

_God, I'm so fucking confused._

Norman stopped in front of a particularly huge and particularly splendid house. Streams of water were forming on the front lawn. Through a set of wide windows, somewhat obfuscated by the drizzly mist, an affable yellow light glowed. Somebody was sitting in front of the windowpane, from what he could make of the silhouette, probably curled up in an armchair with a good book, probably laughing with rosy-cheeked children, probably sipping on scotch; though it might have just been a piece of furniture.

The solitary figure standing outside in a thunderstorm took a deep breath and steadied himself on the concrete wall bordering the house. Just like that, he realised how insane he had become. What had he fantasised of doing? Driving to an influential neighbourhood and just happening to find the men he was looking for? Exacting revenge?  _Killing_ an FBI director?

Clutching his sides, Jayden floundered in the direction where he thought he had left his car.

But he couldn't find it.

His inhale, exhale, was degrading to sobs now. He was issuing a low but plaintive moan reminiscent of a wounded animal. Discovering exactly the length of his tether and upon reaching its frayed end, his recuperating ankle failed him, he sank to his knees, and fluid pooled around his limbs. Half of his body functioned as if it were paralysed.

Sometimes when the physical shell is at its most frail, the mind can surprise with vast mental ability.

_Where do I go from here?_

_Everything I have ever believed in is a lie._

_How do I live now? How do I get up and place one foot in front of the other?_

_ARI isn't helping me, it's murdering me. Tripto is bringing along the body bag. A couple of my superiors are destroying all that I am and I didn't even notice, I didn't even put up a fight. They're annihilating all I believe in but I'm too scared to admit to the truth. How can I deny video evidence after I've seen it with my own eyes? No, this has all been planned._

_So there's only one explanation - nothing is real anymore._

_Fuck. How can I accept that?_

That's what this madness was, this slumping in the middle of a Washington sidewalk in the driving rain: a refusal to believe an ugly truth. Just as Raine had predicted.  _Has he been right about everything?_ Norman didn't know if he could stand it.

Tears came freely now. Spear after spear of rainwater lances detonated in a torrent over him, barraging him. Purging him.

Everything hurt. Every piece of him hurt, from his being as a whole to each individual atom which was repulsed by the falsehoods, by the corruption. And it hurt because he knew a part of him had been aware, had always been aware, and yet he had still hid it from himself, and it was like a double betrayal.  _I knew - didn't I always know? Wasn't the truth always there, lying under a layer of deceit, whispering to me in the dark?_ The pain overcame his heart and he could not longer breathe.

The sky split open high above in a surge of tyrannical supremacy. With every eruption of thunder and lighting the setting around him snapped in and out of focus:  _flash,_ fall trees and dappled rays,  _flash_ , sheets of downpour flying in his eyes,  _flash_ , yellow _, flash_ , blue,  _flash_ ,  _flash_ ,  _flash_.

He hated it all; he hated the rain; he hated his addictions and his facades; but most of all he hated himself.

So he spread his fingers in his pocket, drew out an aqua tube, drew in a clammy breath of shuddering eyelids and sickly inebriation and rapture - one, two, three times - and everything was good.


	8. Anxiety

Sunday

11:38 am

.

She wore a canary yellow dress which brought out the sienna in her eyes. He didn't know what he was wearing and he didn't care. The meadow was green, the sky blue. Stalks of tall grass flowed about his waist and tickled his open palms in a pleasurable, summery way. When he tiled his head back he saw storybook puffs of cloud, exactly the right shade of white against cornflower blue. A patchwork of fields swelled in all directions over soft hills: a quaint village was nestled in one of the valleys, the perfect distance away.

She was laughing. Her laughter was better than the countryside, the fine weather, and the dress combined.

Through the grassland she trod a path with her bare feet. Red Admiral butterflies frolicked in her wake, darting occasionally towards her form until they changed their dithering minds again, pining for the taste of nectar on opaline flesh. He followed too.

The field smelt predominantly of hay, but underneath was the perfume of flowers in bloom. Buttercups and periwinkles grew in the shelter of hedgerows, woven together so that even wayward children couldn't untie them.

She had come to a stop above a dip in the land. From up here it seemed like the whole world spilled out underneath their feet. Some way below a river flowed smoothly, its waters so still as to become a sheet of glass mirroring the countenance of the sky; the sun was one winking eye. Trees, the most verdant he had ever seen, fashioned a lust belt of emerald around the brook.

His body hummed as it naturally attuned itself to the vitality of the terrain. Thrumming cicadas kept up the organic rhythm. It was such an unusual feeling, to be tranquil. To be truly alive.

He gave a contented sigh and, looking to his right, allowed his iceberg eyes to roam her outline. The yellow dress, which reminded him of homemade lemon cake, wafted around her thighs in the breeze. Her arms hung loosely but not gawkily. Shoulder-length hazel hair had been tucked behind her ears. When she was happy dimples sometimes formed on her cheeks and when something really delighted her she would bend over, her hands on her knees, all creased up in mirth, as if to say,  _stop, I can't take any more!_

Now, though, she was just smiling. She stood next to him in profile so he only saw half of her upturned lips. Her gaze travelled across the rich, multicoloured panorama facing them and with every new feature she picked out, her tangerine eyes grew larger and larger.

After a time she realised that he was watching her. She glanced shrewdly at him through her peripheral vision. Then she couldn't keep up her smirk, because the sunlight was making her happy and mellow, so she laughed again, shook her head, and turned to face him.

"I'm so glad you came. I've been wanting to show you."

He thought her voice sounded like a part of the landscape, like wheat fields and fertile earth.

She took his hands in her own. The sun blazed, the river rippled, and her skin was balmy to the touch.

"Dance with me," she said.

Regrettably, he did not appear to be in control of his mouth. When no reply came she tilted her head to one side and unconsciously licked her lips. Somewhere in the distance a heron let out a harsh call.

"Please, will you dance?"

She towed him fondly from the edge of the dale, back into their flourishing pasture. A butterfly flapped close. She batted it away with a kind hand. The living sea of grass submitted to their trampling and the soil smelled dry but was reassuringly pliant. A smile, a wink, and next she'd moved his palm down so that it rested on her hip.

Before the cogs in his brain started turning she had clasped herself close to him; her head was resting in the groove of his collarbone. He could feel the contours of her body moulding to fit his own frame. Tickling his neck was hot breath from her small, round mouth. As though they were enchanted, they began to move together, two decorated dolls getting their legs wet in the dew. He rocked her, arms coiled around her waist with one thumb rubbing a circle in the cotton against her midriff, and although he could not see the ground he was careful not to step on her toes. She let out a little serene murmur. It was more like swaying than dancing, but it was enough. A tenderness entered his arctic eyes while he looked past her to the greens, the blues, the golds.

The earthy hues billowed out until they blended into the sky and he and she were as one.

Warmth grew between them. He treasured the luscious scorching even more than he treasured the potpourri of flowers, or the starling singing from a nearby tree.

At some point he became aware that whilst his mind had been fixed only on his partner silence had stifled the land, and the wind had dropped. He was ill at ease. Doubt niggled at his brain, splintering the fairytale perfection. There was too much heat - too much liquid sweltering at his lower torso - far too much - feverishly he jerked her away from him, and then he saw it, a seeping patch of scarlet splayed across her a stomach.

He tried to yell but was unable.

The sticky fluid had soaked through to his own clothing. On her middle it leached without difficulty through soft yellow fabric, moving at a revolting rate, like poppies seizing the territory of sunflowers.

Hysteria quickly took hold. He forced his hands against the pooling area at her abdomen but this only stained his palms. Firetruck red began to trickle onto the grass below. Ripping off part of his shirt, he mashed that too into the bloodied orifice, but still it came oozing out, until everything he saw was glazed in gore. All the colours had gone, had fused into ruby. The sky was vermilion and in it hung a great burgundy orb, blazing, a wide screaming mouth.

All he could think to do now was to look up at her face. Although it was tinted like an inferno it was still undeniably lovely; those eyes still gleamed.

She was laughing. A grin cut through her face and a high-pitched giggle floated above the lifeless earth. She was bleeding to death, her body was painting the whole world red, and she was laughing.

Norman jolted himself awake.

The young man was slick with sweat and his apartment was so bright. He sat upright, compressing his palms into his eye sockets, incapable of taking in all the sudden illumination scalding his cornea.

Jayden winced and opened one eye, blinked, closed it again, then groaned and let his head fall back. Everything returned to him in a flood.

Last night had been a bad night. He'd made it home unharmed  _somehow_ , had avoided crashing the car, had skidded it to an uneven stop, and had virtually crawled into the flat, every inch of him soaked, aching, rundown. Mostly it was murky snapshots, rather than one long continuous film of memory, but he knew that he'd drunk far too much and used up at least half a vial of Tripto. His skull felt like a firing squad was practicing inside.

Despite all that, he was still here in one piece. Maybe his metabolism was becoming accustomed to large quantities of drugs assaulting his system?  _No. God, that's stupid._ He knew full well how lethal alcohol and narcotics could be when consumed simultaneously.

_What a fucking miracle I didn't get myself killed._

Norman chanced opening his eyes again, finding that this time he could handle the light levels. He saw a pile of wet clothes had been flung on the floor. From what he could tell of the living room from his vantage point in bed, it looked to be an absolute mess. The stench of vomit reached him from the bathroom. Somewhere a tap was dripping sporadically and irritating his delicate brain no end.

On the opposite side of his apartment windows a light shower of mid-morning rain, too light to warrant a raincoat but just heavy enough to be an aggravation, was demoralising Washington. The sky was matted with an unbroken stratum of slate grey cloudforms. It seemed that yesterday's thunderstorm had passed, leaving behind its signature epilogue of drab fog and a strange limpid pessimism.

But the current climate was the least of his worries: he'd been having nightmares.

There was no doubt in his mind as to the identity of the woman from his dream. When he shut his eyes, he could still imagine her hideously joyous face on the black and red canvas of his eyelids.

_Melissa._

He didn't want to consider the significance of her lurid manifestation to his subconsciousness. Nor did he have any desire to think about - to even remember - the revelation which had spurred on his idiotic debacle the previous night. Instead, he swung his legs stiffly out of bed and lumbered to his feet, allowing his migraine to successfully eradicate all intelligible thought from his being.

Making his way out of the room, he came across some items that helped to fill in the gaps of what had occurred the night before. A pair of shoes were wedged illogically in the doorway. Numerous liquor bottles were arranged on the coffee table like a drunken police line-up, and the portable DVD player had been shoved with disrespect to one side. A lamp had been knocked over one way or another; several of the books on their shelves were disrupted; the place bore the mark of a lunatic's muddlings.

His tongue was fuzzy, his jaw coarse from stubble. The man headed straight for the kitchen and poured himself a pint of water which he downed in one spluttering gulp.

There were things to do: he had to clean up, take a shower, scrub the stinking bathroom.  _Hell, I need to destroy that goddamned DVD._ Of course the real root of his dilemma was put away in the back of his mind, stuffed in a neat little box, completely ignored by Norman as he was so wont to do with all of his troubles.

But those trivial matters could wait, at least for a while. What mattered most to Jayden right now was placating a very desperate, very dire need which had manipulated itself into his subliminal psyche, a requirement whose deficit always felt like a chill stone slab rigid against him.

He couldn't be alone. Now more than any other time, he just needed company. He didn't want to lie in an empty bed. His loathing of self was growing with every overdose, with every self-pitying minute, and since he had no way to curb it, he wanted to forget about it in the throes of lust. He simply couldn't trust himself to survive another long night without drugging himself halfway to the moon, and with the knowledge that he now held…  _and I'm lonely. So very lonely_. His life was principally false; he had been lied to, fooled like the fool he was; and as his dream had so insolently pointed out, he had no Melissa. It was too much for one man alone to bear.

Returning to the living room, Norman rummaged on his desk for the slip of paper he knew was there. As he recalled it was small, inconspicuous, and probably hidden beneath several day's worth of clutter. Upon it had been scribbled a phone number in girlish handwriting.  _Call me._ It had been written in good faith, good sincere faith, yet he'd never intended to commence communication or fulfil any part of his physical pledge. He'd wanted her for one night, and he'd had her - that was all. Fate was scornful, however. Now more than anything he needed the woman he had spent the night with several days before, that black-haired beauty, that Tiffany or Tracey or Tess.

He picked up the phone and dialled the numbers, his fingers oily on the dark plastic, and he felt like the devil.  _How far have you slipped?_ This was not the right thing for him to be doing. He was supposed to be solving the case. He was supposed to be coping.

What would he say to her? He'd done it before; he had confidence in the act. Then why did it feel so wrong, like a contract being breached, like a promise being broken?

Never mind. It was ringing now.

.

.

.

It was an endless morning for Melissa Donahue. She found herself entertaining shifting, imprecise half-thoughts.

The day was dreary with a sort of passive animosity, sending the inhabitants of Washington DC into a dull and apathetic stupor. Out of the small windows of her temporary apartment, she could see pedestrians crawling by on the sidewalk, oblivious to the world. The drizzle blocked light from entering the flat and imbued it with a strange, ghostly dimness. In the kitchen all of the surfaces looked pale and grey.

She'd awoken that morning with a head full of buzzing questions she couldn't silence long enough to define. The drab atmosphere had filled her with a paradoxical urge to be alive, to spend her day constructively. She had tried to overview some case files but the thin paper felt unreal at her fingertips. When she went to get herself a glass of water, her eyes caught onto the stove standing in the kitchen. It was only thing in the whole apartment that was bright, attracting the solitary ray of a muted glow cascading from the window, its metallic surfaces glinting sharp like a razorblade: and she knew she wanted to run her hands all over it, to explore its facets and corners. She wanted to cook. Melissa treasured cookery in the same way rich men treasure golf at the weekends. It reminded her of her father.

She had tried to make pancakes, summoning memories as she did of warm summer breakfasts, butter melting on toast, her father's smile. Whisking eggs and flour was a sort of poetry, like making verse out of plain verbs and adjectives.

As a child her father had shown her the correct way to crack an egg flawlessly over a bowl, but she had always managed to yellow her fingers with yolk.  _No, Melissa, honey - this way. Like so._ Now she rapped the egg once, twice, against the rim and it broke cleanly in half. It made her sad. She felt something fracturing within her as well, spilling forth warm and viscous, something which could not be recovered.

While she was waiting for the pancakes to cool, Melissa thought about Norman. He was a danger to her. She bit at a nail and leant against the fridge, trying to formulate a strategy.  _Silly girl, foolish girl…_ How could she come undone so easily? A bottle of wine, a touch, and a friendly glance. Was that all it took to sweep her away into a dream? A firm plan was needed. She couldn't keep away from Norman Jayden, but she could endure to be professional and impassive. The best thing would clearly be to act like it had never happened. Could she manage that? She decided she could. Yes, okay.

Tasting her pancakes, the agent realised that something had gone wrong somewhere along the way. They were too thin, too watery, not the way her father made them. She poured syrup onto them but they didn't seem to taste any better. She was distracted.

Melissa sat at the cold, unwholesome dining room table now, the plate of unappealing pancakes at her side. She handled a fork absent-mindedly, poking at the food without looking at it. Then she pushed the plate away and rested her head in her empty arms.

_I hope I'm not letting you down._

She watched the window as tiny quivering raindrops tried with all their might to leave an imprint on the unconquerable glass.


	9. Courage

Monday

1:44 pm

.

Hushed. A hush within Jayden, and a hush within the world. As he stared at the clock on the wall, saw the minute hand scraping past the digits in inconsiderate haste, he wondered how he had never before allowed the endless rush of time to properly sink in.  _How much have I wasted already?_ Emanating somewhere from deep within his consciousness was a dull and maddening sluggishness, so contradictory to the speeding hand that it was almost a mockery. Norman noted the dawdling train of his thoughts, the cogs of his brain which were rusted and becoming jammed with the slightest deliberation.

Everything was backwards. Why was everything backwards?

He was in his office, but there was no Agent Donahue tapping rhythmically at her keyboard. For once there was no rain blemishing the sky. No leads in the case, no way forward, no rain, no Melissa.

Norman had slunk into work late. He prayed that nobody had noticed, that nobody would make a fuss. Of course, at least one person must have taken note of his unpunctuality. He frowned, eyes scanning the empty room: where was Agent Donahue? He remembered there was a good reason for him to be avoiding her, but at that moment it had slipped his mind. Feeling the dull ache of panic which he could not voice, Jayden rose to his feet with the intention of kick-starting his listless brain into action via a walk around Headquarters.  _And perhaps find Donahue in the process._

The corridor outside was deserted. Norman followed his instinct, and his instinct was telling him to find coffee. His mind was oddly quiet now, as he patrolled the ghostly corridors which were always, at least to him, chillingly reminiscent of hospitals or asylums, even when busy with pacing bodies or whispers or rushed, covert undertakings.  _Only the damaged, only the insane walk these halls_. He turned a corner into one of the larger meeting areas closest to the cafeteria and sighted a coffee machine. About half a dozen people were scattered about, leaning against walls or conversing in small groups, employees snatching sparse moments of respite from a frantic vocation.

_People never change,_ thought Jayden. Even employed in one of the most demanding and respected professions in the world, they took precious minutes from their schedule to converse around the water cooler. Human nature was unavoidable.

Norman heard her before he saw her. She was talking to another woman, her distinct honeycomb voice rising and falling with the natural rhythm of discussion, somehow at the exact frequency for him to tune in whilst drowning out all the other muted exchanges. She and her partner were on the opposite side of the widened corridor, and had not noticed him. He turned his face away from their general direction as he headed for the coffee machine.

"It's different," said Melissa. "Very different. It's busier, and it feels more important, like the eyes of the world are really watching here."

"It's definitely something to get used to." The other woman was nodding with the conviction of years of experience. Norman recognised her as another Special Agent.

"I'm not sure I will. I don't expect to be here long. Just a temporary transfer, that's what they told me."

The conversation drew to a close. The agents peeled apart, taking their polite leave, heading their separate ways. Norman kept his eyes on the plastic cup in his palms as the coffee was dispensed in an unappealing brown trickle. Once it was full, he placed a hand in his pocket and walked back towards the office at a leisurely pace. There it was again, the numbing lack of mental activity, a white snowstorm in his brain. He passed by a window and saw the listless mass of grey sky without taking it in. Though Jayden could not say it then, if he had had the capacity he would have realised that this state of mind was caused by his own self-imposed silence and his dogged refusal to accept all that had happened to him in the past few days. It was as if his mind was caving in on itself, keeping up the charade by systematically shutting areas of itself down.

Norman entered the office. He saw her then, and was able to take all of her in, standing directly ahead, with her back turned and her long neck visible, as she heard the door close, as she spun around to face him. Surprise was registered briefly in her eyes - then quelled. It was only a knee-jerk reaction to being snuck up behind like so. She had been waiting for him of course, knowing his arrival was assured in time, wondering what could have caused such a delay.

"You're here," she said, pointlessly.

"Sorry I'm late," he said, just as pointlessly.

There was a twitch in her jaw, and then she nodded. Something had passed between them in an infinitesimal instant, a pact of the mind, which was stronger than any spoken contract by its undeclared nature, and simply sensible, simply logical in mutual benefit. They wouldn't mention what had happened in the apartment three nights ago. Even if he could still taste her on his lips; even if she remembered the precise press of his skin against hers. Neither of them wanted that unabashed sensation dredged up from the deep. If it was acknowledged it would grow, and they had no idea how they could handle that. But the moment was powerful precisely because it had been done so subtly, because without speaking both had known exactly what the other was thinking, and because for both of them the wordless agreement was more binding than a legal contract.

"Now you're here, Agent Jayden, we should get back to the case file." Her voice was like glass, trying to deflect the undertones of emotion.

He knew what she meant.  _Right, back to the file._ Because their leads had run out and the drawing board was the only place left for them.

Norman sat down at his desk as she gathered an assortment of papers. She spun her chair around to face him so they were a reserved and professional distance apart, and sat down also, her face stern, plain, whatever gold he had once imagined glittering in her eyes now extinguished, blank, gone. "Let's go over the file again, from the start. We can clear our heads and get a fresh view on things."

He sat while she talked. Sometimes she would pass him papers and he would look stiffly at them, a compulsory glance. Donahue covered everything, every possible lead or clue, every piece of information she could dredge up from the bloated FBI database, right from the very start, right from the moment Forrester had passed the case file into Norman's expectant hands. He closed his eyes and tried to focus. What had the case been about again? It had all been days ago, like a lifetime ago.  _Drug smugglers and heroin. A tanker from China._ His mind was dulled by his own internal blockades.

A voice rose up through the haze of drowning thoughts. "Agent Jayden, are you listening?" He opened his eyes again and focused upon her, sitting across from him, her gaze piercing him like bullets, seeing through all of his lies, knowing more than it should.

"I'm sorry. I think I need some water." He made to stand up.

"No. Wait just a minute." Suddenly she was in front of him, above him, surrounding him on all sides. There was a razor-sharp edge to her voice as she looked down at what must have been a pathetic sight: this fallen agent, this grey ghost, weary-eyed and twitching, fingering his pocket, his mind floating away from him even as she looked on. "We've spent a few days together now, and I've had time to learn things about you, as you've no doubt done with me." The sky was so grey that no light came in through the window, and her eyes were not illuminated, and Norman could not tell what she was thinking. She seemed to be trying to build up to something, choosing her words with slight hesitation. "No, let me speak. I've noticed your nervousness. You're having difficulty concentrating. You're not fully committed to this case. Neither of us are fools, Norman, and I can read signs just as well as you. If you're having problems for whatever reason - if  _something_  is stopping you from being at your best - then I think you need to let somebody know and get help. You owe that much to the Bureau and to yourself. Do you hear what I'm saying, Norman? I think you  _need help_."

The first thought breaking over the sea of his mind was a spine-chilling fear.  _She knows! Christ, how could she know?_  Had somebody told her? Could she have worked it out? Would she tell others? There was sweat pooling at his temples, but he had to remain calm and deny the impossible.  _Nobody must ever know._ "Is that an accusation? Are you accusing me? There's absolutely nothing wrong with me," he blurted, his tongue a dead weight in his mouth.

"Norman, calm down. I've tried to be reasonable, I really have, but this is ridiculous." She was staring down into his eyes, filling his vision so there was nowhere for him look except at her. "I'm trying to help you."

Before he could stop himself he had sprung to his feet, so they stood face to face, their eyes only inches apart, icy blue battling to overcome the gold. The shouting voice was his own. "Who are you exactly, Melissa Donahue? Who are you to walk in here and say things like that to me! I don't give a fuck where you came from or what you think you know about being an agent, but here in D.C. we don't turn on each other. Goddamn!"

"Norman, would you just listen to me?"

He could hear the rising exasperation in her voice, the fracturing of forced patience. He pushed past her. He had to drive the reminder of the feel of her flesh from his mind. Jayden headed for the coat slung across the top of his desk, taking a hold of the material with gratifying ease.  _I need to get outta here._

Melissa made a quiet noise in the back of her throat. "So this is the famous agent they all speak of." Her tone of voice said things Norman hoped he was imagining.

_Of course it's not. I'm just Norman Jayden, a drug addict, a lost cause, and it seems that's all I can ever be._

There was something small and rectangular sitting on his desk. Norman froze. It reminded him of a very similar object in his recent memory, something he had chosen to wipe away, something that shouldn't exist.

He span around. "Who put this here? Who put it there, Donahue, was it you? Is this all a game?" He was waving his arm frantically over the surface of his cluttered desk, speaking far too fast.

"Who put what where?" said Agent Donahue slowly.

He had picked up a thin white sheet and was waving it in front of her face. "This piece of paper!  _This note!_ Did you see? Did you see who put it on my desk?"

"What are you talking about? I didn't see anything -"

Norman was no longer listening.  _No, it wasn't here when I arrived. I would have noticed. That means somebody placed it here - this was hand-delivered - just minutes ago! They could still be in the building! Oh God, who? Who is doing this?_

Jayden ran a hand heavily over his face. His eyes were as black as sin, hidden behind his fingers, and then his hand moved and the reluctant blue returned. He crumpled the note and shoved it into his jacket pocket. He touched the vial of Triptocaine for strength.

"I have something to attend to," he said, stiffly, formally.

Melissa had stopped talking. She watched him place his black glasses on the table and then leave the room in a cloud of inelegance and anxiety. Something was wrong with the man, terribly wrong, and she could not say what.

The note in Agent Jayden's pocket read as follows:  _Norman, meet me at HQ's underground parking as soon as you find this. Leave ARI behind. Raine._

The garage was well-lit but deserted. Norman couldn't help but recall every bad detective movie he'd ever seen as he paced down an aisle of parked cars. Bad things happened in underground garages, maybe even ones belonging to the FBI. He'd made sure his gun was in his inside jacket pocket.

He did not know what he was supposed to be looking for. Presumably Raine, if here at all, would come for him. So many things could go wrong. This seemed rushed and risky - the note conveyed as much. Why ask to meet, after so much secrecy? Why had this mysterious informant kept their distance only to reveal themselves now? Norman didn't know what to expect and he was not looking forward to finding out. If Raine could be here, in HQ, then they must be as closely tied to the FBI as he had dreaded. It was all just too dangerous, too suspicious. Jayden felt a cold sweat break out on his back and realised that he did not want to be here. He was about to turn and head straight for the elevator when a voice emerged from his left.

"Norman."

The agent spun on his heels, drawing his weapon. The sound had come from behind a tall concrete pillar.

"Who's there?" yelled Jayden, louder than was strictly necessary. Seconds passed. Just as Norman was about to advance, a tall figure stepped out from behind cover into the dazzling focus of the harsh garage lights.

"It's me, Norman. It's Raine. Just as promised."

Jayden kept his aim levelled at the stanger's head. He did not recognise his face. He was well-dressed, youngish, with black hair and rectangular glasses. Norman wasn't entirely sure what he had been anticipating, but he had a feeling it wasn't this.

The man opened his suit jacket, slowly enough to prove that he wasn't posing a threat, and showed the empty pockets. "I assure you I'm not armed. I don't have the clearance even if I did want a weapon. No tricks."

Norman Jayden lowered his gun warily. The stranger buttoned his jacket back up and smiled.

"Thank you. I must admit that guns make me rather nervous." He adjusted his spectacles and blinked several times. "I'm glad you came, Norman. Part of me was worried that you might not. Did you leave the glasses in your office?"

"Yes," said Norman.

"Good. I've come to the conclusion that ARI must be have the ability to be accessed remotely, so the FBI can keep an eye on you. They're not just glasses - they're a camera and tracking device permanently trained on any agent who wears them. That's why I can no longer correspond with you, Norman. The Bureau knows too much now and they're growing suspicious. I'm afraid that from hereon we go it alone."

Norman shifted on his feet. "You make a lot of assumptions. Who says I want anything to do with this? Or that I think anything you've told me so far has been the truth?"

"I've shown you evidence that would stand up in court. Even the people here aren't capable of producing fake MP4 files yet. I have access to FBI cameras, to their CCTV footage. How else would I know that you've received my letters?"

"You've been spying on me?"

"No more than the Bureau has been." The man called Raine sighed and clasped his hands in a strange display of patience. "It's more than evidence and plausibility at this point, Norman, and we both know it. You know something is deeply wrong with ARI and with Tripto and you need to fix it or it will devour you whole."

Jayden swallowed the saliva that was stuck in the back of his throat. He felt a network of carefully structured lies collapsing upon him, and now the weight of the responsibility he was faced with was dragging him down with it.

"I have so many questions," he blurted.

"I may not be able to answer them all. But those that I can, I will."

"Do you work for the FBI?"

"Yes." Before Norman could say anything else, Raine cut him off. "But I can't tell you anything more specific than that, I'm afraid. I have my own safety to consider. I'd rather not reveal my identity, even though you probably already have more than enough data to find me in the database. I'll just have to trust your good nature to respect my privacy."

"Why are you doing this? Why are you revealing all these secrets?"

"Let's just say that I don't believe the FBI have been the best employer they could be."

"You're putting yourself in great danger. And me."

The stranger cast his eyes downwards. "The Bureau hurt somebody very close to me, very badly. They've hurt so many more people than just you, Norman. The ARI project has caused so much damage, and the deeper I dig, the more and more destruction I find. I think it's about time the FBI was made accountable for what it's done."

"Why did you come after me?"

"I'll be honest, I didn't know who else to turn to. I couldn't go to the press. I don't think they'd ever believe such a sensational story, even with concrete evidence, and my involvement was too likely to get back to the FBI somehow. So I had to stay inside the Bureau itself. I needed somebody who already knew about ARI, who had seen its dangers firsthand, and who might just be able to do something about it. You showed the most promise."

"Well then - why not you? You seem to know an awful lot about ARI. Why do you need my help?"

The young man laughed. "Norman, I'm not a special agent. I don't hold any real power in the FBI. I couldn't do anything to stop ARI even if I did know everything were was to know about it. Only you can find and hand out justice to those who have wronged us."

"Are you asking me to  _purge_  the FBI of its evils?"

Raine watched Jayden closely. "No. I'm asking you to do what you think is right." After a moment the stranger glanced at his watch. "We can't talk for much longer. I'm sorry to leave you like this. This will be the last time I can communicate with you for the foreseeable future, so listen closely. You know all that I know: so far two Executive Assistant Directors have been involved in the ARI project, at least. Maybe it stops with them, but I doubt it somehow. You must find the root. You must find out how deep this corruption goes, and you must stop it."

Norman found himself nodding. He felt like a year-long headache was slowly lifting. He felt like he had finally come to recognise something that he should have recognised long ago, some duty that had always been needed of him and which it was finally time to fulfil.

"Please be careful, Norman. I wish I did not have to put you in such a dangerous position. The Bureau knows that you know too much, and the Bureau is not pretty when riled." The stranger made to turn away, to the opposite side of the garage from which Norman had entered, to return to wherever in the FBI had come from.

"Thank you," said Jayden suddenly.

Raine turned back. He smiled. "You're welcome. Good luck, Norman Jayden."

The agent watched Raine pace away until he had vanished behind a row of parked cars. Jayden took some time to steady his breathing, to control the energetic speeding of his thoughts and the blessed brightness he could sense opening in his mind. Once he felt that he had gathered his strength, Norman walked back to the elevator. And for the first time in a long time, Norman walked tall.


	10. Panic

Monday

5:05 pm

.

Something was very wrong all of a sudden. Norman could feel it up his spine. His hands were tight around the steering wheel and his fingers were damp. The car behind was drawing closer and closer, and, he noted with an uncomfortable leap in this throat, the vehicle on his right was also angling itself towards him. A car which had previously been far ahead was now slowing rapidly so that it drew dangerously close to his front bonnet.  _They're closing in on me. They're... herding me._  There was an exit left off the highway which he was being forced towards, nudged like an impressionable animal. If Norman didn't turn into it the speeding cars would collide with him. He turned into it. He glanced over his shoulder through his side and back mirrors. Why was the highway so suddenly deserted of other cars? When had this begun to happen, and how had he not noticed? When had his headway been halted? When had all his glowing progress been stopped?

.

.

.

Nobody stopped Norman as he paced the long FBI halls after his meeting with Raine, halls which had seemingly confined him his whole life, and through which reality seemed capable of slipping away from him. He walked with a purpose in his step that had not been present for some time. There was a lean confidence about him that made the walls shy back and the floor whimper under his feet. Perhaps, he thought, he remembered how it felt to have tangible control over the world around you. No man could live for long without something of that power, without some small spark of impact he could ignite and fan into life. Perhaps those were just the inane dreams of a weak man in a weaker world.

Jayden wanted to leave for his apartment, immediately. He needed to be away from HQ for a while, where he could plan and plot and think on what Raine had said without fear of discovery or interruption, where he could begin anew to redirect the path of his own destiny.

_That sounds really grandiose._ Small steps, then: to start all he had to do was get out of HQ.

But if what he had been told about ARI was true, then things were beginning to get very complicated. Could he use the glasses without the FBI tracking his every move? Would he even be capable of functioning as an agent any more without his secret weapon? Was he utterly dependent now? Would each of his secret fears and most intimate thoughts be scanned, examined, catalogued?

He returned to his office. Melissa was not there. There was a vacant hole in the room where she had previously stood. It was probably better this way, without awkward explanations or any more of her probing questions. He would not search for her. Norman grabbed ARI, felt the glossy surface smooth under his fingertips, and placed them immediately in his coat pocket. If the Bureau really was tracking him through the glasses, then good luck tracking him in the dark. All he needed now was his car.

When he reached it the engine started smoothly, blissfully responsive to his touch, purring like a cat. Special Agent Jayden drove away from the FBI with deceptive ease. How hard it had been to reach this point in time, and how simple it all seemed now. He almost felt ashamed. There was no pounding in his head, his eyes were not blurry or bloodshot. His addictions were hiding like timid creatures, maybe crouching under the backseat, maybe waiting for him back at home. He would not search for them. The road ahead of him stretched out long and easy, disappearing into the middle distance where the horizon was blurred with mist and the grey promise of rain. Norman turned onto the highway which would lead him to his apartment. It was just a straight stretch now and then he would be free to do some research of his own.

Because his mind was focussed on other things, Norman did not become immediately aware of a car tailing him, driving just close enough to be an annoyance. His hands and feet were on auto-pilot and he only realised the presence of his disruptive company when the vehicle began to loom large in his rear-view mirror. Norman shifted lanes to the right to allow it a passage through which to overtake him, but it did not take advantage of the space he had cleared, instead continuing to match his speed. Several metres of black tarmac passed. The car changed lanes so it was again directly behind Jayden. Norman could not stand D.C. drivers. He wanted to get home.

.

.

.

But there was no chance of home once he had been ejected from the highway. The three cars which had suddenly swarmed had forced him onto a smaller road running around the back of some terraced housing, although the speed of the vehicles had not slowed: they bounced along the deserted street, premature streetlight slinking off their backs and water from the gutter at the side of the road spraying down in their wake. Norman felt like a caged beast and was beginning to act accordingly. He was enclosed on three sides. The cars bore down on his flanks, metallic predators not afraid to draw blood. Everything was escalating so quickly and he barely had time to react. There was nowhere to go but to follow the terrifying certainty of this straight, narrow road, potholes jerking his tyres and pieces of garbage gusting around the curb. His rear-view mirror was invaded by a huge, tinted windscreen. The car behind him collided with his bumper, sending his Ford Taurus lurching forward with a crunch of metal.

Norman knew he had very little time to get out of this situation, so he would have to let instinct take over. He thought he had enough experience with that. With one hand on the wheel he reached into his pocket and removed the ever-present tube. He inhaled. On both sides of the road houses flashed by in an endless parade of dreary city monotony, but even as they did, Norman felt time slowing in his head, felt his thoughts and his reactions grow and expand until they filled everything in his skull and all illusions of temporal linearity melted away.

For a single moment of superb clarity, the houses on his left vanished and were replaced by the flat expanse of a drenched and deserted plot of empty land. Norman saw his chance and took it. He swerved violently, spinning the wheel under hands which had now stopped sweating. His car was sent flying over the sidewalk until it collided with disused grassland, juddered and veered a little, and then continued on at breakneck speed. It shook like a leaf. The chassis was trembling beneath him.

Jayden's mind was jumping faster than his speed dial. If he could just get away, get somewhere safe, he could have time to coordinate his next move. His apartment was too far now. Spotting a gap through the houses to his immediate left, he swept around it without warning, scraping the side of his door in the process. The scream of tires filled his ears. He risked a glance in his mirror and saw that only two vehicles emerged around the turn to continue their blazing rampage after him.  _That's one down._

The housing estate looked on like a cold sentinel in the cold Washington air. Three cars flashed past through the quiet neighbourhood, one ahead and two trailing close behind, lighting up the concrete walls with dancing streaks of silver and blue mirrored from their sleek bodies. The sky above was watching and growing restless. Norman knew his pursuers were faster than him. If he was going to lose them, it would have to be through finesse.

He turned right, diving down a street which ran towards a major road. He wanted more cars, more obstacles, more chances for him to slip the net. His entourage would be forced to slow, and if he was fast, maybe he could dodge his way out of a bad situation. The vehicles chasing him down were big broad beetles, large and square-backed and glimmering ominously in silver and black. Maybe his slim, unimpressive sedan would be an asset for once. Norman pulled off the accelerator as traffic started to fill the lanes. The cars were still only a slight way behind but, Jayden noted with a flash of aggressive relief, they were also reducing speed. Norman began to thread in and out of the traffic. His mind, shot with blue, was working at double its normal speed. He switched lanes like an ice skater, constantly re-assessing the dynamic patterns of all the vehicles accelerating and decelerating on the road. The two hulking cars were lagging behind. Soon Norman was several cars in front of them, and he knew before long they would lose sight of him altogether. A quick mental check told him that he was heading back towards the city centre. He wanted to get off this road before they could catch up, before they could know where he had gone. There was a junction turning off some yards ahead. Jayden took it. As he turned, he looked back over his shoulder and was unable to see the cars following him. If he was lucky they would still be caught in the traffic and would not work out where he had left the road until he was too far away for it to matter.

But Norman could feel the shakes returning to his fingers. He suddenly became aware of the weight of his tongue in his mouth. Now that immediate danger had been avoided the adrenaline was draining away, and worse still, he could feel the unmistakeable rush of Triptocaine leaving his system. An overwhelming desire to get out of the car overtook him, running along the back of his neck and down his elbows and deep into his thighs. His apartment was far away on the other side of D.C. He had been driven in a tight loop and was almost back at HQ, right where he had started. But there were plenty of cheap hotels in this part of the city. He could easily check in to one for tonight, or just for a few hours, whatever he needed. It would be quiet and still in that shoddily-cleaned room, the dust clinging to the dry carpet and the air freshener cloying and sickly sweet. He was slowing the car down to survey the streets when he drove right past an apartment block called  _Washington Heights_. That name rang a bell. Agent Donahue had told him about that name just a few days ago, hadn't she? She'd made a joke.  _If the heights of Washington are right there then why am I even bothering with the FBI?_  That was where she was staying during her time in D.C. That was an apartment block rented by the Bureau, and she was in it. Norman spun the wheel, turned in the middle of the street, and parked at an awkward angle beside the building.

He shut off the engine. It took him some time to even get out of the car. The muscles in his legs were twitching sporadically. He sat looking out of his side window at the cars passing by, so slowly, so calmly. His eyes were glazed, blinking far too infrequently. His neck was sore where his seatbelt had bitten into it when the car rammed into him. Eventually his arm lifted up and latched itself onto the door handle. He managed to stumble out, slam the door and turn and head away from the road.

Two impassable glass doors were blocking his path. He would have to buzz to be let in. Was Melissa here? When did she leave work? There was only one apartment on the row of buttons without a name beside it, just a plain white slip of paper. He rang the buzzer. Nobody answered on the intercom and the door did not click open. It did not even open on the second, third or fourth ring. Norman leant his forehead against the cold wall. He curled his hands and slipped them under his coat for warmth. The wind was starting to bite.

Jayden did not know how long he would have to wait. Maybe it would be wiser to find shelter elsewhere, but now he could not find the strength in himself to move again. He did not want to get back into the car. From the apartment he could see that some of the paint had been scraped off the side, and its rear end was badly crumpled.

Norman turned with his back against the wall and lowered himself until he was sprawled on the ice-cold marble steps.  _This place is pretty classy._ He wondered, dimly, why it had such a stupid name proudly displayed above its entrance. He thought he was beginning to lose feeling in his toes. After a few minutes his coat was feeling flimsy and inadequate. Norman watched the breath clouding from his lips. The winter sun had set long ago, and the last feeble rays were submitting themselves to the inky throes of night. A streetlamp lit itself belatedly a little way from him.

_Melissa, please, for God's sake, don't stay late at work tonight._

The Special Agent closed his eyes and thought about praying. It was not something he did, as a rule. But he had childhood memories of sitting at the foot of his bed, being coerced into praying each night to whatever juvenile God he held in his head, and for some reason they had chosen to return then. In those days God had never managed to chase away the ghouls, and Jayden did not think He would have any better luck today. Now he had no need for God. God had been replaced by a tube and a pair of glasses.

Each time he felt like he was making progress, he slipped back down again. When the clouds cleared for just a moment they would always return before too long, stronger and darker and meaner. It was a weak thing to think, he acknowledged even as he thought it, but he thought it anyway:  _I don't know how much more of this I can take_. Norman felt like someone who opens and closes his eyes in the dead of night and cannot see a difference in the pitch black, who discovers that the darkness of the outside world is no different than the close, organic dark drawn upon their very eyelids.

He waited almost an hour for her. But in the end, she came.


	11. Compassion

Monday

6:19 pm

.

He was sitting on the steps of her apartment, head bowed like a broken Atlas. She approached with slow caution. At first she mistook him for a hobo slouched in the entrance to the building, looking for comfort away from the cold. Then she noticed he was wearing a suit. Then she noticed the cut of his coat and the colour of his tie. Then she noticed a small glass vial, vividly blue, which he was running through his fingers. His face was not visible. He was not moving at all except for his fingers, in that strange repetitive motion, strangely fluid, possessively wrapped around the tube. She clutched her bag and stepped closer.

"Norman?"

Almost before she had even spoken, his head snapped upwards. He pierced her with his eyes. They looked distant somehow, as if he had spent a long period of time on a faraway island and was only now returning. He stumbled to his feet. He had to press against the wall for balance. Agent Donahue could see now how cold he looked, how the tips of his fingers were almost blue. Or had that been a reflection from the vial? It was already gone. He had already ferreted it away somehow, somewhere, in an instant in some pocket and without her seeing. She almost wondered if it had been there at all.

"Melissa," he breathed. Then he had to take a moment to stop himself from falling over. He took a heavy step towards her. She had to resist the urge to step backwards. "Thank God you're here. Please don't ask any questions, don't say anything, just listen to me. I need you to drive me away. To somewhere else, to a hotel maybe. I was chased. I was attacked. We have to leave right now, I don't want them following us, but I don't want them knowing where you live. I think I've lost them for now. Melissa, you've got to take me somewhere safe."

Donahue was rifling in her bag for something. She wasn't even looking at him. He felt a momentary flush of annoyance, then a cold slab of terror. She would help him, wouldn't she? He was desperate, he could feel the instinctive desperation seeping from his pores even as another, higher part of himself turned away in disgust. In the panicked moments after the chase he hadn't known who else he could turn to, and his brain had thought of her first.

But now she'd found whatever she had been looking for and was staring at him severely. He was nearly afraid of the resistance in her eyes, turning all the warm honey to stone.

"Who was chasing you?" she said.

"I don't know. Three cars. I don't want to say who I think it might be. It's too crazy."

Now she was the one who looked desperate, like a psychiatrist dealing with a troubling patient. "How long have you been sitting out here?"

"I'm not sure, a while." He was shivering. "Please, let's go. Is your car nearby?"

"I… I just parked it round the back."

He took another step closer and grasped her arm. She looked down at it as if she had not even felt his touch. The skin between her eyebrows was furrowed and a deep look of anxiety had settled on her face.

"Please, we have to go. I'm sorry. I really need you to do this for me. I can't drive. Please help me, Melissa."

"Norman, you can't just leave your car here like this -"

"Never mind the car. I don't care if they tow it, it's a wreck anyway. Please.  _Please_ ," he moaned.

In her expression was a surrender. She looked into his eyes, saw how deep they welled with the waves of fear, and let out a small breath she had been holding.

Just as she'd said, the car was parked behind the apartment block. Norman sat in the passenger seat and placed his hands flat on his thighs. Melissa watched him sitting there for a moment, breathed deeply, then turned on the engine and pulled the car out of its parking spot.

They drove on through the endless conveyor belt of the road system, surrounded on all sides by other people in other cars who had no idea what was happening in Norman's own private world. He sat and stared out of the window at the strangers, watching how their cars glistened under the sharp streetlights like sharp crocodile backs, paying particular attention to the vivid whites of their eyes as they drove past. They were frightened little crocodiles themselves, too afraid even to show their crocodile tears now. Agent Donahue kept checking her mirrors and running a hand through her hair like she was feeling anxious. Norman was no longer feeling anxious.

The city laid strung out before them like a glittering teal and amber necklace. If Jayden had been paying attention he might have noticed that Melissa did not really know where she was going and was leading them in rough circles of the parts of Washington she could navigate until she had decided on what to do. As it was, he watched the beads of light and movement until they blurred into a giant glowing corona on the surface of his eyes.

"Okay, Norman," said Melissa, and when his sight focused he saw that they had stopped outside a motel in a quiet-looking area of the city.

She switched off the engine. She turned to him and for a long time he thought she was going to say something, or maybe just force him out of the car and then drive away without him. He tried to concentrate on her face but the lights in the distance were flickering in and out of focus as cars on the highway passed in front, like a row of fireflies flaunting for his attention. When he looked back at her she had her fingers over her mouth and was watching him strangely.

But Donahue did not drive away. She got out of the car with him. They stepped into the motel and she booked the cheapest room available. Then they both walked up a set of corroded steel steps to the room which had been signed for, number 47.

This motel was so old that it still used metal keys. Melissa unlocked the door and flicked on the light switch. Closing the door behind them, Norman felt it would be too much to check if they had been followed. He still scanned the parking lot once, regardless.

Inside the motel room was very little to comfort or console. The pillows on the bed were thin and the light on the ceiling was a bare bulb. There was no wardrobe, only metal clothes hangers on a railing against the wall. In the corner a small, grimy bathroom displayed itself unappealingly. Both agents had seen dead bodies in rooms like this before. As soon as the door was shut Melissa turned around with her arms crossed, and Norman just stood there with his hands in his trouser pockets, looking at her plainly, like a lost dog who had no excuses to disperse.

It started with a sigh. "Alright, Norman. Now I need to know exactly what's happening."

He thought he should sit down on the bed before trying to explain. The mattress sagged under his weight. "I was driving back from HQ. I was going home, when I noticed these cars following me. Three of them, big and dark. They weren't doing anything wrong, at first, only they seemed to be pushing me, making me drive a certain way." The experience hadn't been long ago, but forming words to describe it seemed like a mighty exertion to him. "Anyway, they drove me off the highway. They were going so fast and I was surrounded. I think they were trying to get me to crash. Or maybe they were taking me somewhere, I don't know, or just trying to scare me."

Agent Donahue stood over him with arms still crossed. He could see her nails digging into the flesh of her upper arms. What was it about her when she stood like that, which made her seem so tall, so like statues of Lady Justice he had seen, fierce and just with her sword and scales? What put that severity in her face? "How did you end up at my apartment?"

"I didn't know where I was going. I had lost the cars but I didn't know for how long. I saw the apartment out of the corner of my eye, I made a rash decision, I wanted to stop, I was scared."

"You didn't see who followed you?"

Norman shook his head.

"Didn't get a number plate?"

Another shake.

"And you came to me because you were desperate and wanted help?"

Norman nodded. Then he wondered if this was how suspects felt when being interrogated.

Melissa nodded back slowly. She hadn't taken her eyes off him since they had entered the room, had barely blinked. "I'm going to be very plain now, Agent Jayden. I can see how bloodshot your eyes are, and how you can't quite stand up properly, and how you're not thinking straight or making rational decisions, and when you say that you've been chased through the streets of Washington by three cars, my immediate reaction is not to believe you. I'm thinking and thinking but nothing is making any sense in my head. Because what I'm thinking is, who would do this to you? Who would have any reason to do this, Norman?"

"You're not going to believe me if I tell you."

She made no attempt to hide the roll of her eyes. "At this point I'm not believing anything that's coming out of your mouth. So go ahead Norman, give it your best shot, you've got nothing to lose."

"I can't. I can't. I don't think I even believe it myself, how can I try and convince you…" He clasped his hands in his lap, let the sentence hang unfulfilled in the air.

Melissa shifted a little on her feet, and he knew that she wanted him to look up at her. "Are you in some sort of trouble?" she said gently.

Norman shrugged. He refused to move his eyes from the floor. "Define trouble." It became hard for him to stop himself from smirking.  _Christ, what's wrong with me?_

"I'm being serious. You have to tell me if this is really serious, if you really are being followed. What if you were in grave danger because someone knew who you were, what if an old enemy had an old grudge? I'm grasping at straws here. Aren't you even going to try and explain this to me?"

She was becoming exasperated. And still he couldn't do it. He couldn't tell her. Who could find the bravery to do such a thing? It had always been a secret, it should always remain a secret. He had grown accustomed to living in the shadows and had begun to assume that it was his deserving place. Why try to raise yourself when all you were worthy of was the dirt and the dark? This was a burden he had learned to bear alone, had been forced by circumstance to endure all by himself. Then that was the way of things. There was no use trying to fight fate. The universe was forcing him back downwards with every passing moment, like the great press of gravity, so downwards he would go.

He was laughing now, he could hear the sound emanating from his own mouth. "What's the use? What could you do?"

"Alright. You know what, fuck you Norman Jayden. I've tried to help you and you just keep spitting it back in my face. There's only so many times I can try. You think you can just keep on acting like this around me and I won't take notice, that I'll just smile and shrug it all off? Screw it, I'm just going to come right out and say it. Are you taking drugs?"

The laughter had stopped long ago. Slowly, slowly, Norman put his head in his hands, and stayed like that for a long time. Minutes passed. Melissa began to think that he might never speak to her again. She paced a little, stared at the glum spartan objects in the room, tried to figure out what the hell was happening and what kind of fire she had been thrown into after the frying pan of the FBI. Eventually a shrill wind rattled through the doorframe, and Jayden found he was able to raise his head. His eyes looked even worse than before, flecked with red like spots of blood in foam. When he spoke his throat sounded constricted as if he had been holding back tears. "I'm going to speak plainly to you now, Melissa. What I have to tell you isn't pretty and it isn't easy to swallow. But I guess I owe you enough to try. Everything started with the glasses."

Donahue took a deep breath and steeled herself for whatever was to follow. "Your Added Reality Interface glasses?"

"Yes. ARI for short. They were developed by the Bureau and handed out to exceptional agents who were believed to be capable of using them best. I was chosen. The glasses changed my life and made me a better agent than I ever thought I could be." Norman was struggling to compress months of suffering and silence into one clear explanation. "But… they also produce unwanted side-effects in those who use them regularly."

Melissa came to sit beside him on the bed. He took this as a good sign, and continued.

"Migranes, nervous tics, anxiety, bleeding in severe cases - withdrawal symptoms essentially. The best way of describing it is like an addiction."

Jayden rummaged in his pockets. His fingers closed around a cold, thin glass vial and stayed there, clenched. This was the moment. It was time to reveal which he had never before willingly revealed. Norman knew if he thought about it much more he would never be able to do it. It no longer mattered if it was a good idea: it would have to come out, like an uncontainable torrent, like a dam which had grown thick with decay and mould and which would finally burst. He would have to do it now,  _now_ , before the strength left him forever. He looked up into the face of Melissa sitting next to him, and if she had been a Lady Justice before now she was a goddess of protection and understanding, gentle and fierce and sublime, a lion-headed Sekhmet or golden Amaterasu or another one he had forgotten the name of, clothed in the robes of the sun.

He pulled the tube out. It sat brazenly in the palm of the hand. "This is what I was given by the FBI to offset the effects of the glasses they also gave to me. It is a drug, an opiate. It is called Triptocaine."

Melissa was just staring. He felt a brief flash of pity for her, then wondered why. Jayden wanted to continued speaking. Now he had begun to tell, he wanted to tell it all.

"I take it by inhaling. It's a depressant, so it slows me down after I've been using ARI for too long. Used together, it's possible to control all the various side-effects pretty well. The only problem is, I've been using them both for a while now, and, well, issues are starting to occur." He chuckled under his breath. "I'm a bit addicted."

"To them both?" Melissa whispered.

"Sure. To the speed of the glasses, to the calm of Triptocaine. Maybe they're having completely opposite effects and I'm just stick in the middle. When I get a new symptom, at this point I just don't know. It could be one or it could be the other. They've become so tangled that there's no way for me to unpick them now without killing myself in the process."

Donahue looked down at the tube in his hand, then back at him, a little afraid, very curious, silently asking permission. Norman remembered she had done the very same thing with his glasses when they had first met. That seemed a long time ago now. He nodded and she picked up the Tripto, brushing his palm with the tips of her fingers.

"You're saying that the FBI  _gave_  this to you?"

"Yes."

"But the FBI abhors drug use."

"I know that. I didn't say it made a lot of sense."

She passed the tube back to him. The sight of it was making him feel sick, so he pocketed it again.

"I don't understand," said Melissa quietly. "What does this have to do with you being chased?"

Norman was tracing patterns into the bed sheets with his finger. "I accepted all of this for a long time," he began. "I accepted that ARI and Tripto was just part of who I was, unfortunate maybe, but necessary, that the Bureau was trying its best to reduce the negative effects of an otherwise highly successful device and I had no reason to complain. But recently I've begun to think, to question, and I've had evidence passed my way to suggest that the ARI project is darker than I ever dared imagine. Things have become clear to me. I think the FBI planned it all along. I think they  _wanted_  their agents to become addicted to the glasses and the drug."

There was a steady silence. Jayden did not look up, and when Donahue spoke, the doubt in her voice made him flinch.

"But why, Norman? Why would anyone want that?"

"They're an unparalleled combination even if they do have horrific consequences. Leads to improved efficiency, more cases solved, a happier government, better public opinion. And once their agents are hooked, they have to stay agents if they want to get their fix. Forever. There's no backing out. That's a hundred percent employee retention for special agents, no more wasted resources on those who decide to leave after a couple of years. It seems like I was involved in the initial trial run of ARI and Tripto. Maybe they want to roll them out to more agents in the future. Maybe they're still testing to see if it's a viable option. I just don't know.

"Anyway, that's only part of it. I started getting these letters. From someone called Raine, an anonymous tipster, like my very own Deep Throat. Don't ask me why he did it, because I just don't know. But he told me that he'd been researching and now he had proof that ARI and Tripto were actually manufactured to create addicts out of special agents. He gave me evidence, proper hard would-stand-up-in-court evidence showing that senior FBI employees were behind the whole project from the very beginning, that they knew full well what they were creating and the damage it would do. I met Raine in person today, for the first time. Only briefly, but he said that the Bureau was getting suspicious of him and of me. The letters had to stop."

Melissa had her hands at her temples, and her elbows balanced atop her knees. Her eyes were closed, like she was deep in thought, or could no longer take the sight of the dirty motel room with its sad, weathered carpet and paper-thin walls. "I'm just - I'm having trouble trying to comprehend any of this. Why would the FBI be involved? They must have known no good could come of any of it. I mean, secret drugs and addictive glasses? What sort of message is that sending?"

"The world's full of awful people, right? It's something you can't escape no matter where you go. We should know that most of all. Just because the FBI is a big respected agency doesn't mean it's immune to corruption or vice. Somehow evil has managed to ferret itself somewhere high up into the hierarchy and make a nice comfy home for itself." He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. "Or maybe those bastards honestly thought they were making a good decision. I mean, fuck, someone dropped the bomb on Hiroshima, didn't they?"

"So the people chasing you…?" Her bright eyes were open now. She stared right at him as though all the pieces were clicking into place, and what was forming was a very frightening jigsaw.

"It was the Bureau. It had to be. They know that I know too much."

"But… what were they going to do to you, Norman? Kill you? Hurt you? Make you stop following this trail? They can't get away with shit like this!"

Jayden smiled wanly, then looked back down at his empty palms. "If I've learnt anything from my years as a special agent, it's that the FBI can get away with whatever it wants."

Agent Donahue got to her feet and held her hands on her hips for a moment. She stared at a significantly insignificant spot on the ceiling for several seconds, then blinked slow and hard, then turned back to him. "You said you have evidence?"

Norman nodded.

"I think I'd like to see it, please."

With a hint of embarrassment and reluctancy, Jayden reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew a small portable DVD player.  _Sorry, Raine._ Norman had been meaning to destroy the DVD which had been sent to him, but something, an urge or an instinct, something that seemed important and intuitive, had encouraged him to keep a hold of it. So it had remained in his jacket since Sunday, quiet, unassuming, vital. Who knew when he might need it to convince someone else? Now it seemed like his instinct had been right. But more than that, he knew he needed the DVD to prove the truth to himself. If he doubted his mind, if he turned away and once again tried to blanket reality with his own lies, as he knew he was all too capable of doing, it would be there to remind him that he wasn't going crazy: that he really was part of something larger. Passing the device to Melissa, Norman became acutely aware of how critical it was that he looked after that disc.

Donahue found the play button and pressed it. And just as Norman had done two days before, she watched as the cheap plastic screen lit up, as tinny voices began emanating from the speakers, as two FBI Executive Assistant Directors began planning their dark plans in a brightly-lit room.

When it was over the silence clung to the motel room like a cobweb. Norman wondered if he should say something. He could say something designed to be comforting or reassuring, but why should he, said the selfish corner of his brain.  _Nobody was there to comfort me when I needed it most._ That was a frail excuse. Truthfully, there was nothing comforting which could be said.

"Excuse me," said Melissa. She left the DVD player on the bed and headed for the door without a backward glance. "I need to be alone for a while."

Norman shut the device down and returned it to his jacket pocket. He sat on the bed for a long time, looking out of the small window at the inky night and the sky blanketed by clouds. He was feeling numb. It was a good feeling: his mind was blissfully empty for once, free of all thoughts, like a busy thoroughfare now gone quiet. He went into the adjacent bathroom and turned on the faucet to wash his hands. The water was frostily cold. His skin protested at the feel of it, and when he splashed his face he could sense every pore being scoured by the glacial chill, until it had percolated down to his very bones and turned them to ice. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it had just turned 9 o'clock. It was getting very cool on this early December evening. Even with his jacket on Norman was shivering. Melissa would be freezing outside.

He went and opened the door to the room. A small crouched shape was sitting at the top of the steps just some paces away. She had her arms wrapped around her knees and her head was bent low. The wind had picked up, was whipping her hair and her coat and causing some of the cheap awning at the motel entrance to flap about disconcertingly. It made it difficult for Norman to shut the door again.

Once he'd succeeded he sat down next to Donahue, and the steps groaned. She was looking out at Washington, at the buildings rising tall out of the streets and the lights of hundreds of indistinct beady cars melding into a thin orange beam snaking around them all. And in the distance the Washington Monument could just be made out, thin and ghostly on the skyline, pointing upwards like a knowing clue, up to where the moon glowed behind the clouds. Cars and trucks flashed by the motel every so often, but this part of the city was mostly silent now. Melissa turned to him. Her eyes were covered in a hazy sheen which had probably been caused by the cold, but maybe not.

"How could they? How  _could_ they? Without even telling you?"

Norman looked away as she wiped her eyes with the palm of her hand. The next moment he jumped at the feel of cold skin on his neck, and turning around, saw that Donahue had placed her fingers gently on the base of his jaw. She withdrew them apologetically. They were sitting awfully close.

"Is that whiplash?" she said.

"Yeah. From my seatbelt, earlier in the car."

He rubbed at his neck somewhat self-consciously. There was only a slight mark, and it hadn't been hurting before, but for an hour or so now it had begun to ache. Hopefully it wasn't serious. Norman wasn't sure how much more neglect his body could take.

All of a sudden he felt painfully lonely, lonelier than he had ever felt in his life, like it was a real bodily pain along with the ache in his neck. Raine had deserted him. He didn't know who else he was supposed to turn to. In adventure novels the hero was never alone - even at the darkest of times he had a partner, a sidekick,  _somebody_  to help him through the worst of it all.  _I'm not exactly a hero, though, am I?_ Jayden shook his head, as if it were possible to physically shake those childish thoughts free and away from him altogether. But the loneliness remained. Loneliness was not something that could be shook free.

"Melissa," Norman said, just above the soft whistling of the wind. "All I want is to not be alone. I don't think I can handle being alone right now."

She was still looking out at the city. She blinked once. She did not smile, but her voice was firm, and when she spoke it was just as heartening as her smile would have been.

"I'm not going to leave you."


	12. Doubt

Tuesday

10:03 am

.

At first there was nothing to see, only sound.

A sound growing and flowing like honey, thickening into a melody big enough to fill a universe. When the world slowly began to emerge out of the darkness it started with shade on shade, black shadows glinting over black bars. Black piano keys. Then came the white keys, then the piano, then the pianist.

Melissa was stood in a large room with a tiled floor. It was full of darkness and dust. She did not notice any more than that. The piano, big as a mountain, stood in front of her, with Norman sat at its head like a king or a priest or a judge on a pedestal.

He moved his hands and music was made. He did not look down at her. He was busy with the keys, so deep in concentration it was almost like slumber. The sound came and wrapped itself around her. It was a lilting, dulcet melody, circular and eternal, forever looping back on itself, renewing its mellifluous cycle. The high notes of the piano were lucid and bright and fleeting, trembling up and down rainbow scales, so utterly sweet they became almost sad, and the subdued lower chords, as constant as the rolling ocean, anchored them to the harmony before they could fly away into the sun. On and on he played.

She stood paralysed by something celestial. As he continued to play, soaring across the piano with feathered fingers, the perfect sound made a shroud around her as deep as the darkness in the long room. It was like he had looked right into her soul and plucked the orb of her essence and made it sing, as though he had known her his whole life.

The music – it was speaking to her with a golden voice.

Melissa stood with her hands by her sides, feeling that her heart could be filled no more, thinking she was going to cry. Just as she sensed her centre being pierced so precisely that it was akin to a shaft of blazing sunlight carving through her chest, the seraphic piece came to a climax, trilling and reverberating, the most beautiful thing she had ever heard, before dwindling to a hushed end. His hands dwelled over the keys, reluctant to leave. The final radiant tones vanished into the air as if they had never even existed and all that was left in the room were the shadows.

She had to take several moments just to learn to breathe again. "You wrote that?"

He nodded. "It's called Melissa's theme."

Then he stood up at the head of the piano, towering above her, and its heavy hard surface reminded her of a chopping block. She could see the marks etched into it now. Norman raised his hand and in it was held a giant axe. He swung in an arc over the piano, on a collision course towards her, and the splintering of wood and the black and white keys flying everywhere was the last thing she saw before it hit her.

Melissa jolted herself awake.

The sunlight was the first thing she noticed. The sun was high and slanting through a break in the curtain. Shards of brightness fell gently over everything in the room, swimming into her vision like dust from the wings of an angel.

Everything was pleasantly warm. They were still positioned where they had laid down last night, Melissa on one side of the bed and Norman on the other. She glanced at him now. His back was turned to her, and the soft breathing coming from his still frame told her that he was asleep. They were both clothed. Norman's shirt was badly crumpled.

She got up slowly. The matted carpet underfoot was temperate on the soles of her feet. With the combined warmth of their slumber, their hot humid breaths, their body heat, the room had turned balmy overnight. It was hard to believe that outside it would still be winter.

The first thing Melissa did was head to the bathroom sink. Cupping her hand over the faucet, she raised the icy liquid to her lips. Dirty motel water had never tasted so sweet. Running cold hands across her face, she caught sight of her wrist watch. It was 10 o'clock already.  _I guess we're not getting to work on time today._

When she returned to the bedroom, Norman was sitting up and rubbing his forehead. She stood and waited for him to catch sight of her. He did, and smiling sheepishly, patted the bed next to him in an invitation for her to sit down. She took it.

"So," she said. The room was full of golden light.

"So," he replied, slower. He glanced sidelong at her, as she sat gazing at the wall. She was deep in thought. She looked disheveled from the night before: her hair was a mess and some of her mascara had rubbed off around her eyes. A halo of light was streaming in through the window and surrounding her. Norman thought she was beautiful, like a butterfly with her day in the sun.

"I think we should stay here today," he managed to say.

Melissa looked at him.

"I don't want to go back. I shouldn't have told you what I did. I shouldn't have shown you that video. They're looking for me, and now they'll be looking for you too. I've put you in danger, and I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking straight, not that that's any excuse. God, I am sorry. This wasn't how I wanted any of this to happen, but... I'm glad you're here." He picked at the bed sheet, avoiding her eye. "I know you don't have much of a choice. Will you help me?"

"Yes," she said, almost without pause. He looked up to see her gazing at him intently, her eyes glowing bright like the sunlight. He had to look away from the intensity.

The bed shifted beside him as she stood up. He could tell from the pad of her footsteps on the dirty carpet that she was pacing the floor.

"If we really want to do this," she began, to the beat of the padding, "if we really want to take on the FBI - mad as that sounds - we need to start somewhere. Do we have any leads, apart from the video from your strange informant? How high up do we think this goes?"

Norman looked down at his fingers interlaced in his lap. "No other leads. Not any I can think of, anyway. Raine might know more, but if he does, he's not ready to share it with me yet. But I doubt it somehow. I get the feeling the guy's putting all his eggs in one basket."

He looked up to see Melissa watching him. Without really meaning to, Norman began to smile. She smiled back. They were a little shy, but excited too. It felt real, and right, to finally be doing this, to be speaking up about the black cloud that had been following them around for so long. For Norman it was like a break in the rain after a thunderstorm, and all he could do was hope it lasted long enough for him to dry out.

"Is it really that obvious I'm on Tripto?" he said suddenly.

She watched him without saying a word.

He sighed and got up. "Yesterday you asked if I was on drugs, before I'd even told you anything. It was like you'd been wanting to ask ever since we met. Is it that obvious?"

Melissa hadn't realised she'd been tensing. But she felt her muscles relax as he stared at her, so plaintive, so dejected in his creased shirt and last night's sweat. She had never seen him so small. It was almost painful. For some reason she felt an overwhelming urge to go and touch him.

"Well," she began, "there were symptoms. Signs. I know enough about addictive drugs to spot that something was wrong. Yes, I was suspicious."

He nodded, trying to accept the fact, but without really understanding what it meant. The room suddenly seemed a lot cooler. Moving over to the scratched and pockmarked table to pick up the jacket he'd thrown there the night before, Norman chanced a glance through the curtains out of the room's front window. The parking lot was devoid of life. Turning back to face his partner, Norman shrugged on his jacket and deliberated the empty, weightless feeling he was experiencing, almost like he was floating just above the ground. It seemed that, if he could just find something to anchor himself to, he might be able to claw his way back to earth.

"Should we call HQ to explain why we're not there?" said Melissa. She was leaning over the bed and rummaging in her bag.

"An excuse," Norman said. "Like skipping a day of school. I like it."

Melissa was dialling already. She finished and handed the phone to Norman. "Forrester," she explained.

Jayden shot her a glance.

"Hey, he's  _your_  boss."

He held the phone to his ear. After one ring it picked up.

"Forrester, FBI."

"Sir. It's Agent Jayden."

"Jayden! Where the hell are you and Donahue?"

"We're working on the case away from the office today, sir."

"Whatever the fuck you're doing, it better be good. While you've both been dawdling we've already lost the only lead of the damned case."

"Sir?"

"Abbot's dead. The guy you visited. They found his throat slit on the docklands this morning."

Norman felt his tongue like a dead weight in his mouth. He was rapidly plummeting to earth now.

"What I'm saying is, get the fuck on with it. You're both professionals but this case is making you look like a couple of idiot graduates. I want another lead by the end of the day."

The line went dead. Jayden threw the phone onto the bed.

"What did he say, Norman? Norman?"

Norman took a step back. The air was cold around him and the light at the window had gone dark.

"Chris Abbot is dead," he said.

" _What_?"

He cleared it throat. "Chris Abbot is dead and it's all my fault. It's all my fucking goddamn fault."

Melissa didn't know how to react. Norman was staring down at his hands, his eyes glassy, his breathing shallow. She took a step towards him. His head snapped up to meet her eyes, and their stares tussled briefly.  _Don't do this, Norman._

"I need to get out of here." He was shaking his head. Before she could grab hold of him he had swung for the door, yanked it open and dashed outside.

Melissa made it to the threshold and halted. It was pouring. The sky was split with ribbons of filthy grey clouds, only a hint of blue sky fading into the distance, and it had started to rain. How she hadn't noticed she didn't know, because it was drumming on everything in sight like an army regiment. Jayden was halfway down the stairs and soaked already. Melissa clenched her fists and ran out after him.

"Where are you going?" she yelled. She wasn't sure he'd hear over the sound of rain on metal, concrete, glass. Within seconds her skin was ice-cold to the bone, her hair slicked to her face.

He made it to her car in the middle of the parking lot and then seemed to falter. Leaning against the hood, he stared all around him, as if searching for a bright neon exit sign somewhere in the haze. He was digging in his pocket now, and she knew for what. Rain was bouncing off him in waves.

Melissa reached him and grabbed a hold of his soaked arm. Norman raised his eyes to her. The look in them almost made her want to let go.

"Don't do this, Norman."

He pulled himself free from her.

"Norman," she said, louder this time.

He raised his head to the sky. Rain was pouring down his face, burrowing under his shirt, dripping from his sleeves. He let the feeling overwhelm him, like his body was nothing more than a stream of running water that could just drain away. Dropping his head, he opened his palms until the glassy needles of rain removed all feeling from them. He felt the words bubbling from him before he could comprehend them.

"The people we're supposed to be protecting - we're supposed to be - and all I wanted to do - and this fucking bureau doesn't help, it makes everything worse. It fucks up every damn thing it touches."

A painful smile crossed his lips. He was blinking rapidly, and Melissa could see the raindrops clinging to his eyelashes. She was suddenly aware of how cold she was.

They both looked like drowned rats. Her shoes were filled with water and his shirt collar was plastered to his skin. She took a hold of his arm again, and found her way to his hand. She held it tightly despite the wetness. Taking one step closer, she could feel the damp heat of his breath on her soaked skin. Before he could protest she pulled him towards her and wrapped her arms around him, taking in the feel of his trembling arms and his hard chest under the sodden clothes.

For a time they stood like that, in front of her car, with the rain still pattering down on their heads. Though he could not tell it, Melissa heard Norman's heartbeat loud in her ear. And although she could not see it, Norman had closed his eyes, and his face looked almost peaceful. In the sky a hint of blue remained.


	13. Love

Tuesday

11:30 am

.

After a few minutes she managed to coax him back to the motel room with promises of threadbare but dry towels and a respite from the rain.

She busied herself with collecting all the towels she could find as he sat himself down on the single chair, the seat of which got soaked through. In the end it turned out there were only two towels. They took one each and got to work drying their hair, wringing out their clothes and taking turns to towel off in the bathroom. Luckily Donahue had a spare change of clothes, but Norman had to make do with his shirt and pants after giving them a quick blast from the wheezing hairdryer.

Melissa came out of the bathroom in her dry clothes and hung onto the door frame with one hand. Norman was sitting in the damp chair, gazing into the distance.

"I'm starving," she said pointedly.

Norman looked up. "Me too."

"Well okay. I'll go and get us supplies." She went and put on her shoes which were still sticky with rain. She opened the door a crack. Outside the downpour had become a gentle patter.

"Food, water, maybe a new shirt for you. Is there anything else we need?"

Norman asked for Ibuprofen. He felt better than half an hour ago, but since then a fierce headache had taken over his brain. He knew he'd taken Tripto yesterday. He couldn't think of the last time he'd worn his glasses.

Melissa nodded. "I won't be long."

She shut the door behind her. The rain was almost inaudible now. Jayden took a deep breath and looked around the room. He'd always thought there were few things more depressing than motel rooms. It was a shame that his job led him to them with a dependable frequency.

By the foot of his chair was a handbag. It took him a moment to realise that it must be Melissa's. It was open, and he could see a phone sticking out.

He stood up and opened the front door to yell to his partner, but the parking lot was empty. Droplets of water were trickling down from the awning in front of him. The clouds were moving on, and the sky was glinting with the promise of sunshine. He couldn't see Donahue anywhere.

Norman returned to the room and shut the door. He sat back down in his damp chair. He stared at his hands for a minute, trying to will the headache away. It didn't work, and instead his eyes fell back on the bag by his feet. Before he was thinking about what he was doing, he had leant over and was rifling through its contents.

A compact mirror. Some lip balm. His fingers traced shapes over the items he found inside. Then he felt something hard and large, plastic to the touch. For some reason he pulled it out and held it in his palm. It shone darkly in the dim light. It was a tape recorder.

He knew what he shouldn't do. But a crippling force took hold of him, and he did it anyway.

He rewound a little, then pressed play.

"Three cars. I don't want to say who I think it might be. It's too crazy." His own voice came crackling from the plastic speaker, as if from a distance. This was yesterday. He remembered that much.

"How long have you been sitting out here?" That was Donahue, her voice louder and firmer than his own.

"I'm not sure, a while. Please..."

He rewound further.

"Anyway. He's been on edge for the last few days, twitchy, and not keen to answer when I probe him. His eyes are often bloodshot and he has intermittent tics. I've tried to get answers from him, but I don't think he trusts me enough yet. In fact I'm not sure what to think..."

And he rewound again.

"... is Agent Donahue. I'm recording my investigation into Agent Norman Jayden. I am to discover more about, and if possible confirm or deny, Jayden's relationship with illegal substances as well as how this is affecting his work. Both his ethics and his results. I hope to report on..."

His thumb pressed down on the pause button, hard. The rest of his hand was shaking.

Some kind of poison was taking over. He felt it creeping in from his temples, worming its way around his brain. He hadn't felt it this bad in a while. The tendrils spread down his spine, into his chest and across his forearms until he realised he had thrown the recorder across the room. It lay unaffected on the carpet, its buttons still gleaming black. Buttons with his fingerprints on them now - where hers had once been.

He wanted to throw the chair too, but his brain had a far better idea. Instead he sat backwards and dug deep into his pockets. His fingers grappled with the slick surface of that magical little tube, then freed it from its dark constraints.

He raised the vial to his nose. He felt a brief flicker of regret, but before he could register it properly he was already inhaling.

It was too late, too late, too late and too long since this  _release_.

The room grew longer in front of him. He closed his eyes. His pulse slowed to a leisurely pace. The worm in his head stilled and was quiet. He exhaled slowly, feeling his lungs contract in his rib cage, beside his peaceful heart.

He knew she would return to him at some point soon. His gun was on the table behind him, where he had placed it earlier, in arm's reach. He would be ready.

Time passed like an age, like the blink of an eye.

Eventually Jayden heard the click of heels on the metallic stairs outside. They were coming closer.

He was still sitting on the wet chair, eyes closed. But he was listening.

There was a rattle at the door. Then the sound of plastic bags rustling together, then the lock clicked open and Donahue was speaking as she walked in.

"I'm back -"

Before she could get the words out he had rounded on her with the gun. He held it with both hands and pointed it directly between her eyes, just like they had taught him. She stopped mid-step. Her eyes were golden with confusion and fear. His hands only wavered a little.

The room was dead with silence.

She allowed her eyes to explore. They caught sight of the towel on the back of the chair, the disheveled bed, her forgotten handbag, the tape recorder in the corner, and came to some kind of grim conclusion.

"Who are you, Agent Donahue?" said Norman. He was trying desperately to hide the breaking of his voice, but the Tripto was helping with that.

Melissa took several steadying breaths. "Norman, I'm not here to hurt you. You have to trust me."

He laughed like a bark.

"No, you're just here to spy on me." Then the anger came over him again, a giant rolling wave sending froth all the way to his fingertips. "And how fucking  _dare_  you talk to me about trust!"

Her breathing was becoming more erratic. Norman could see a thin sheen of sweat breaking out across her forehead.

"I'm going to put these bags down now," was all she said.

Ever so slowly she lowered her knees until she could release the grocery bags onto the floor. The packets of food fell over and a single apple rolled free onto the motel floor. Then she straightened.

"Well?" Norman urged, allowing the gun to shift a little. He wasn't sure what he was asking for. He wasn't sure what he wanted. All he knew was that he was furious, and frustrated, and if answers didn't come out of her mouth soon he was going to shoot something.

Melissa, meanwhile, was trying to calculate if she could escape through the door, still ajar, or lunge for the pistol in her handbag before he would pull the trigger. Probably not. Her mouth was dry, her fists still clenched at her sides although she had let go of the bags. She didn't think he was going to shoot her. Did she?

How well had she really got to know Norman Jayden?

"Alright," she breathed. "Let me explain." It felt wrong to be telling him. It made it more real, somehow. But more than that, she  _wanted_  to do it. She wanted to show him that she'd changed. "Yes, I was sent here to investigate you. But - I'm not interested in that any more. I'm done. With the Bureau and all of it. I don't want to  _be_  like them any longer, Norman. No more lies. No more secrets. No more of any of this crap."

She held her hands up to him, palms facing forward. A show of trust. Her eyes sought him out and held him firm in place, even while his hands trembled.

"They've made us do terrible things, Norman. Let's not give them any more."

He stared back into her eyes, and the more he stared the longer and longer the distance between them grew. He didn't think she was lying. His heart wanted more than anything for her to be telling the truth.  _Please, don't you lie to me too._

His arms felt so heavy.

The anger was dissipating, leaving behind a thick weight on his tongue and making his legs feel weak. Suddenly the Triptocaine seemed to leave his system all at once, and he felt like death. His headache returned even stronger. Like a stalling engine, his brain struggled to take in what she had said, the ramifications, and where it left them both now. What he wanted was for all of it to go away.

Norman dropped his arms. He took several steps backwards then fell heavily onto the bed. He was sober enough to place the gun down beside him without setting it off.

The agent began to heave as great shuddering spasms took him over. He screwed his eyes shut and let them come.

It took Melissa a moment to realise she was out of immediate danger and that Norman looked like he was going to cry. She stepped forward to pick up the gun and place it on the table, emptying the chamber for good measure. The bullets made a clatter on the cheap varnished surface. Then she eased the door shut and the world outside fell away.

She turned back to him. She saw that he had his head in his hands.

Tentatively, inch by inch, she moved closer to him. The bed depressed as she sat beside his shaking frame. Words failed her on this occasion. Instead, she placed her hand on his shoulder, which quivered under her touch. She let everything just hang in place for many long moments.

"I want them to feel justice. I want them to pay for what they've made me become."

He was speaking so softly. It threw his voice all across the room, like he was no longer sitting right next to her. Melissa squeezed his shoulder.

"For a while now it's felt like... like I'm living in a dream. Like each day is an illusion, and I've been wondering when I'm going to slip free." His head was turned slightly away from her, his fair falling in a mess across his bottomless eyes, so when he spoke she could not see his lips move. "Do you know what I mean?" The words were a question, but their sound was not. They fell hollow and dead across Melissa's lap.

"I think sometimes people lose themselves and they have to take time to work out who they are again," he exhaled. "They start drowning in life itself. And they have to fight for themselves through it all, they have to fight back to the person that they were. If you want  _anything_  in life you have to stop dreaming and start doing. And I'm so sick and tired of this nightmare. I'm so  _tired_  of feeling sorry for myself."

She wrapped her arms fully around him then, and held him there on the bed. "I know, Norman," was all she said.

She knew. She knew.

They hung in peaceful suspense for moments upon moments, like there was a thick pressure holding down their arms and heads and keeping them anchored together in the stillness.

She wished she knew what to do next, but she didn't.

So she brought her lips gently to his temple and pressed them against the skin there. It was damp and a little salty. He remained frozen in her embrace, though her kiss lit up the nerves all along his hairline and down his spine, so comforting, so unexpected.

He reminded her so much of a man she used to know that her heart was starting to ache.

She stayed close to him, resting her head against his. She shifted a little so she could intertwine her hand in his because it felt right. Inside her a battle was going on and Norman thought maybe he could feel it radiating out from her skin, thawing his inhibitions, his fears, his unlocked potential.

"Melissa..." he began. There were many words running through his head. Many ways to finish that sentence. Each one was a crystal moment suspended in possibility, eventualities he could make reality if only he could decide which to pick.

She shushed him like one might shush a small child. "No more speaking," she said.

Then she pushed him backwards with her so they were laying spread-eagled across the bed, and she pulled him closer, and she kissed his eyes and nose and the dry tears on his cheeks, and he enclosed himself in her so tightly that her smell of rain and heat filled his head, and they were falling apart and coming together all at once, and in those moments both of them knew what it meant to stop drowning, stop dreaming and start being.


	14. Anticipation

Tuesday

7:16 pm

.

The floor was littered with pizza boxes and cans of coke. They had both given up on the last of the takeout, which had gone cold and crusty.

Melissa was sitting at the desk in the now-dry chair, cross-legged, two buttons open on her shirt, writing in a small notepad. Norman was laid across the bed with his arms behind his head, speaking aloud.

"So let me get this straight. You were instructed to investigate me and my... suspicious behaviour. You did as you were told and came over to D.C. like a good little girl to snoop on me."

"Geez, Norman," laughed Donahue.

"Sorry, a good little FBI agent."

She rolled her eyes, but was still smiling. "Essentially, yes. That was it. They wanted to get more info on you. I wasn't here to lock you away."

He shook his head against the bedspread. "No, I think you were. You just didn't know that bit yet."

There was a moment of silence.

"You think they were ready to rein you in?" Melissa asked.

Norman stared up at the ceiling, running his fingertips together as he constructed his sentences. "They came after me in black SUVs. I don't think there's any other plausible explanation. Maybe I was starting to draw too much attention to myself, or maybe they knew ARI and the drugs were getting too much. Either way they've had enough of me running free all over the place."

He sat up on his elbows. "Besides, Raine knew something was going on. He said the FBI thinks I know too much."

Melissa hummed in agreement. She was tapping her pen against the table. "But if we assume that's true, then... They were trying to silence you? You're more to them than just a disobedient agent. Even if they suspected you were on drugs, chasing agents down isn't standard FBI protocol. There's got to be more to it."

"Gotta be," said Norman.

"That means they do know what you know. They knew why it was so important you stay quiet."

Jayden pulled himself up off his elbows, forward so he could look at Melissa as she turned in the chair.

"Welles and Hyde were in the video. We know that those two, at the very least, were in on the ARI project," she carried on. "Was that it, or does it spread higher? Who did these orders come from? Where did the order to send  _me_  here come from?"

There was an electric spark connecting them through the air. Jayden looked closely into her honeyed eyes, found in them as much conflict and confusion as he could feel beating against his own breastplate. He took a deep breath.

"Who ordered you to come here, Melissa?"

She was shaking her head rapidly, remembering something that she refused to believe. "My direct superior told me. He said that it was a very important assignment. From the very top..." She froze and stared right at him. "It couldn't be."

"Who?" He was almost falling off the bed. "Who did he say the assignment came from?"

She swallowed hard. "Roland Warren."

_The Deputy Director of the FBI. The second most senior position in the entire bureau. Roland fuckin' Warren. Just a hop, skip and a jump from the one running the whole show._

Melissa looked pale and afraid.

But Norman was nodding with a dreadful conviction. "I think it was. It has to be somebody high up, or else none of it would have gone on for this long this successfully. I think it was Warren. I think it was the fucking Deputy Director of the FBI."

Their eyes clashed again. It was a stretch, and they both knew it. They had their suspicions, gut feelings that made their stomachs churn, but the evidence to back them up was thin on the ground. This is what they called in the FBI a hunch. They were known to be dangerous, and deceptive.

But then Melissa did something crazy. "Me too," she said.

Norman took this as permission to carry on with the wild train of thought.

"That means the corruption is going on right now. Right now they could be planning, and scheming, and doing this to God knows how many other agents, and stopping God knows how much actual FBI work from being done." It made him want to slam his fist into the wall.

He was tired of running and tired of being less than he should.

"Let's go give the bastards what's coming to them," he said.

All of a sudden he knew what we had to do, and the path forward seemed clear. He got up and grabbed his suit jacket from the back of the chair. In its right pocket he found his black glasses, icy and slick to the touch. They had been neglected for several days at least. There was even a fine layer of lint and dust on them which he traced through with his thumb.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Melissa watching him. He realised he had been caught up in feeling ARI in his hands, as seductive as a shadow at the end of a long corridor.

He pulled his gaze away and looked back at his partner. "I'm going to put them on," he explained. She was listening. "But I need you to keep an eye on me. Take them off if anything bad starts happening."

Donahue had her hands cradled in her lap. "What are you looking for?"

"Warren's address. We have to find the poison right at the source." Norman set his jaw. Now he had come this far, he had no option but to see things through to the end.

"But wait... didn't you say the FBI can track you through those? Won't they be able to see what you find?"

Norman nodded. "Yeah. If what Raine said is true then they can watch what I do with ARI. Then again, if it is true they'll be able to track my location. They'll know we're here right now."

There was a heavy silence as the reality of that statement hung in the air.

"Well," said Jayden. "I guess I better be quick."

He motioned for Melissa to move. She stood up and Norman took her place in the chair. He cleared the uneven desk, throwing litter on the floor and Melissa's notepad on the bed.

"I won't be long," Norman said. Agent Donahue stood wavering beside him.

He smiled awkwardly at her. He could see the fear flickering behind her eyes. And suddenly he couldn't wait to be out of her company and back in there, back to the peace and stillness, and his fingers were twitching in anticipation, and he could feel the blood pounding loud in his ears.

Melissa wanted to ask more questions. She held her tongue.  _What bad things might happen while you're in there?_  He had already told her about nosebleeds and migraines. She prayed there was nothing worse.

Norman sat forward in the chair at the desk.

He placed the glasses over his eyes, hooked them on his ears. The world went black.

Then gold. Then green. Everything swam into view, and he was there again, and that old familiar forest loomed high above him, moving placidly in the eternal fall winds, soothing his senses in that old familiar way.

Those trees. Painted in orange, red, russet. Their branches bent in homecoming, their leaves whispering greetings. The breeze toyed with his hair and caressed his fingertips. Into the distance the landscape stretched away, rendering the furthest reaches of a reality so incredibly real. He wanted to stay here for hours. In fact, he never wanted to leave.

It felt wrong, but so completely right. It felt like a part of himself he'd been holding back from. He wasn't sure how long it had been but as soon as he was back it hurt him right in the chest how much he had been yearning for it.

And then he remembered that he was here to find something.

And then he remembered he couldn't take long to find it.

There was a chill in the air, and he could feel a layer of leaves under his feet. He pulled at one of the drawers in the desk. Rows of digital files sprang up at his side. He rifled through them, slipping back into a fluid ease he hadn't felt in days.  _Nothing_. He slammed the drawer shut again.

And then froze. He had looked up, and standing several feet away, the sunlight hitting her at an angle through the pattern of foliage, her hair loose around her shoulders, two buttons open on her shirt, was Agent Donahue.

She was staring at him.

He blinked. She was gone. He looked around, a little unnerved, but the forest was just the same. It whispered its calming susurrus.

_Keep it together, Norman._

This time he tried the surface of the desk. There were several piles of files heaped atop of it, and with a flick of his wrist he was scanning through them. He knew what he was looking for: addresses. They were usually stored in a single place, but the residential addresses of FBI employees, especially ones high up the food chain, were a little harder. Not impossible. Just tricky.

With a pulling movement of his arm, not unlike the motion of shuffling a pack of cards, Norman expanded the files upwards and outwards. He drew himself in closer, peering at each one in turn, glancing with what would seem to an outsider like breakneck speed.

Jayden could feel the classic tingle up his spine. He could sense his eyes watering. He was operating just as fast as ever, but ARI was getting to him faster than ever before. He knew that when he looked up the forest would be darker, more drawn together, and the winds would be picking up the fallen leaves.

And the information he wanted evaded him.

He looked up. Directly in front of him stood Melissa.

He scrambled to hold onto the table, the chair rocking underneath his feet. She was so close he could touch her if he held out his hand, and her eyes were like darkened sugar, and her hair was whipping around her as the forest grew frantic and dull.

He was scared to move. Scared to blink. But when he couldn't hold his eyes open anymore he did blink, and then she was gone again.

He span around. She wasn't behind him. She wasn't anywhere. The trees were bending in the wind, groaning unintelligible threats.

The sky was growing greyer. Just as he'd predicted.

Norman had had hallucinations in ARI before, but never this bad. Never this real, never this quick, and never this erratic. He tried to swallow deep breaths. He couldn't give up now. Besides, Melissa, the real living and breathing Melissa in the honest-to-goodness real world, would get him out if things got too bad.

The cold sweat was soaking into his collar. He readjusted himself, his legs trembling.

Next he opened the drawers on his other side. He knew it was an address he wanted - somewhere he could find someone. Someone important. The hairs on neck were all standing up. He flicked through files, through an alphabet of names. Which letter was he looking for?

Slowly, like the information was swimming to him from a long way away, it came: W.

Warren. The Deputy Director of the FBI.

The name was staring back at him from the file in his hand.  _Surely not..._  And yet there it was, as clear as the day darkening around him.

_I've found you, you bastard._

He flicked the file open. Inside was a partial profile, including job title, contact details... and address. Norman released his breath. Then he committed the three neat lines to memory.

If he had been in a better state of mind, perhaps he would have noticed how easily and quickly he had found that particular address. Perhaps the word would have come to mind: trap.

But it didn't, because he wasn't.

Instead, high on hope, he closed the file with the finality of a decision that could never be unmade. He placed it neatly back in its drawer.

Norman looked up.

She was there, in front of his face, barely inches away. Her eyes flashed anger. He could feel her cold hands on his shoulders, and they laid on him like lead. He wanted to yell but suddenly the breath had left his throat and the world had become a swirling maelstrom. Around her the trees beat the air, hurling leaves, and he was pulled in, falling into the vortex and her eyes.

For a long instant he imagined that this was all his life amounted to: long, grim corridors of branches constricting him to a single dark path, stretching out to infinity like a twisted house of mirrors. He felt his feet slipping away beneath him. He was set alight with rage by the prospect; he wanted nothing but to succumb to the dull certainty.

Norman buckled in the chair.

Melissa tried to keep him steady with her arms.

"Norman," she said. "Norman." She hoped she had masked the fear in her voice.

But he had gone limp. She extracted her right arm, grabbed the glasses from his face and threw them to the floor. His eyes were closed. She shook him, but he was a dead weight in her arms.

"Norman!" she called.

She placed a cool hand to his forehead. He was burning up, like his brain was in overdrive.

Instinctively she placed her lips at his temple, as she had done earlier, but now more desperately, with a sense that there was nothing else she could do, like a kiss you would give to a dying relative.

For a second he kept as still as a corpse.

Then he inhaled so sharply he nearly fell out of Melissa's grip.

His breathing was shallow, his eyes bloodshot. He was shaking all over. A single streak of red trickled down from his nose.

But his eyes were open, thank God. His eyes were open.

"The address. It's in Georgetown," he breathed, shivering in her arms. "I've got it."


	15. Remorse

Tuesday

8:47 pm

.

The car crunched on the gravel of the driveway. High above, the moon split like a shroud through the clearing clouds.

3307 Q Street Northwest.

The address had been carefully dictated to Melissa and then carefully inputted into the GPS. The home of the FBI's Deputy Director.

In the car, Norman was trying to pretend that he wasn't still recovering from the effects of ARI. His eyes were aching but at least his migraine seemed to be subsiding. The car ride here had passed in a blur. He needed a clear head for what was to come next.

Peering up out of his window, he took in the looming presence of the house before them. It was nice, but not as nice as he'd expected. There was no grand garden, no gate, and no overt displays of power or security.

Just a tall thin house with three steps leading up to a big imposing set of double doors with frosted glass.

Norman took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes one last time. He made to open the side door, but was stopped by a hand on his arm.

"Wait, Norman," said Melissa. He spun back around to face her. Her eyes pieced him with a strange reluctance, like one might watch a car crash on the side of the highway. "Are you sure about this?"

He felt the air rush from his lungs as he fell, without hesitation, into her eyes. Under the moonlight he could pick out the amber flecks glinting in them, radiating what looked like frustration, pain, concern, or something else hidden deeper within.

He had been afraid she would ask him that.  _Because the honest answer is, I don't know._  He had rushed headlong into this whole thing without even considering where the path was taking him.

Where would it all end? He'd been so caught up in the hurricane of himself that he hadn't had time, or the willingness, to think things through. Was this it? Was he ready to risk everything just for a small chance of making things right again? Of finally uncovering the truth? Could he handle every possibility, every future that would collapse into this one inescapable fate?

The past week had been a whirlwind. Ever since  _she_  had arrived, who sat with him now, searching deep in his eyes. Everything had been accelerating towards this moment.

It was here already. And he wasn't ready.

He could sense the glasses and the vial in his jacket, without needing to feel for them. Their presence was a constant cloud at the back of his mind. They weighed heavy in his pockets, triggering a hundred memories in his mind, a hundred moments and choices and mistakes when he should feel regret or pride or  _something_ , but sparking no real emotion. No, he felt empty and cold when he thought about them. He always did. In a way they made his decision for him.

It had always been his problem, his addiction, his shortcoming. But this was larger than him now. It was time for him to step up and be accountable, to fight back against his own sorrow. It was time to take on this mantle of responsibility passed to him by Raine and so many silent others.

Behind those doors was where his future lay. He could hear it calling now.

"I need to know, Melissa."

The words came tearing through him, tumbling out of his mouth.

"I've been thinking. I don't know the exact numbers, they never told us, but there must be at least a hundred Special Agents involved in the ARI program.  _A hundred people_. One hundred lives they've destroyed."

There was so much more. But he couldn't tell her about cold nights full of warm bodies and warmer liquor, or the deep undertow of his need for the blue powder, or his hallucinations just minutes earlier featuring the dark forest of his head and her storm-bringing eyes.

Instead he offered her a half-smile, like an apology. "I have to finally face this. I'm sorry for dragging you into it all. Really, I am. Thank you. For everything. If you want to leave now I understand. There's no need for you to get yourself any deeper into this mess. But I... I need to know."

_Shit_. He hadn't meant to say all that. He wasn't sure he could do this by himself. If she left...

He wanted to hold her hand and feel her fingers in his. He wanted to touch her cheek. He wanted to bottle that look in her eyes in this moment, as the moon shone over them and turned gold to silver and blue to black. But Norman Jayden didn't do any of those things.

Like tearing out a part of himself, he forced himself to look away from her and out of the car window. It stung like hell. But he had to do this one goddamn noble thing, if he could do nothing else. He had to let her make this decision for herself.

Norman got out of the car.

For a few moments he stood all alone on the driveway. His breathing seemed much louder than usual. The neighbourhood was quiet save for the whining of a dog somewhere in the distance.

He took one step forward, then another. He was waiting for her, without wanting to look like he was waiting. Without wanting to build his hopes up.

_Fuck it, I know it's wrong. It's not fair. I know I shouldn't want this. But I do. Goddamnit, I do._

He heard the car door opening, then shutting. His breath caught in his throat.

She walked up to where he was standing. He didn't move, but out of the corner of his eye he could see she was taking in the building.

In that moment, even if she had asked him, he would never have been able to put into words how much rapturous joy he felt with her by his side.

"Norman," she said. She tilted her head upwards. "We may have a problem."

Now he permitted himself to look over at her, to follow her gaze. Then he understood.

The house had three storeys, but not a single light on anywhere. He'd been too caught up in his own head to notice. Looking into those windows was like staring into a deep pit.

"What time is it?" asked Norman.

Melissa glanced at her watch. "Nearly nine."

Norman walked up the driveway to the three porch steps. He stayed there for a moment, trying to still the shaking in his hands. He resisted the urge to reach into his pockets, although it caused him to shake all the more. Then he placed one foot in front of the other with slow, hazy precision. The three steps evaporated underfoot.

He knocked on the door. A hollow sound.

Seconds passed. He took a deep gulp of air. It tasted like the memory of rain.

Looking back over his shoulder, he was glad to see that Melissa hadn't abandoned him yet.  _What am I expecting to happen?_ He didn't know, but her presence gave him confidence, like a warm fire burning in the pit of his stomach. She took another step closer and nodded at him. The look on her face was a passing kiss of summer in the depth of winter.

He knocked again, louder. The kind of knock that could only mean something bad. This time they left it a minute, but still nothing happened. No stirrings from inside the house. No lights at the window.

She came to his side. They conferred in whispers, even though nobody was listening.

A decision was made. Melissa stepped back. Norman steeled himself, then kicked one of the doors hard with his foot. The sound was like a gunshot in the still night. He readied himself, then tried again in the same spot just beneath the handle. The wood made a splintering noise. He kicked it a third time. The door swung in on itself and hit the wall behind with a crack.

They glanced at each other, then stepped forwards together into the darkness.

It took their eyes a moment to adjust. When they did, they saw a hallway stretching on and on in front of them. Norman could not see its end. A narrow carpet led off into the dim distance. Doors lined each side, but all of them were shut. Long heavy shadows fell askance across the floor, across the carpet, like specters standing watch, like harbingers of the dark future he knew was to come. Everything was deepest blue.

Norman had a strange unnerving feeling that he had seen this hall somewhere before.

"There's nobody here," he said. He didn't have to search the house to know as much. No, this place was deserted. He could feel the dread rising up the back of his throat.

Melissa opened one of the doors to their left. No light came from it. "I don't understand," she said. "This is the right address, isn't it?"

Norman couldn't respond. His vision was awash with red. He span around and kicked the open door again, but without precision this time, so it bent all the way on itself and ricocheted off the wall. The hinges groaned.

"Where the  _hell_  is he?" he yelled.

He could feel his veins tightening under his skin, like the banks of a swollen river closing in. It was all crumbling in his fingers again. Just when he thought he'd got a step ahead, he turned out to be ten behind.

Someone had to be accountable. Someone  _would_  be accountable, even if it was the last thing he ever did.

He headed for the nearest door, sweeping in like a squall. Melissa was by his side in a moment. She was in his face, in front of his eyes, trying to fill up his vision and sate his rage.

_How can it end like this? In nothing but lonely deception and layers and layers of secrets? Will I ever find the answers? Will anyone? How far does the rabbit hole go, and am I an idiot for following it? To just give in... Maybe I should just give in._

But that answer burned betrayal in his blood. He could not back out now. He had made that promise to himself and to so many others suffocating in silence. For what had been done, and what would continue to be done. He had to be prepared to throw himself into the fray, to risk suicide or sacrifice or slaughter. Anything was better than inaction. Anything was better than quietly submitting to that fate, no matter what came of it. He was done with that life.

He tried to push Melissa aside.

"Let me through. Maybe I can find something - maybe I can -"

"Nobody's here, Norman," she said quietly.

He could feel his vision blurring with rage. He needed to destroy something, to confirm the certainty of his own existence, to remind himself that he had agency and purpose and power. He would not submit. He could not. He would walk this path as far as it went.

"Norman. Norman," his partner was saying. "It's going to be okay. We have to leave, but everything is going to be okay. Trust me."

Then the world became a mess of light and noise and movement.

First came the light. It shone into the hallway from everywhere all at once, bathing Melissa for one split second in an intense colourless glow so sudden and absolute it was like apotheosis.

Then came the noise and the movement. Before either of them could comprehend what was happening, there were yells and the sound of feet on stone from beyond the front doors. Time seemed to slow down. Norman had his back to the entrance but Melissa was looking past his shoulder, and he saw the shock sculpted in her mouth and eyes, saw her hand reaching to her thigh for the gun visible under her jacket. He heard the shouting without comprehending the words. He felt sound exploding around him as bullets tore through the air, as one passed him by and grazed Melissa's arm and hip, saw the grimace spread across her face. Black liquid blossomed through the shoulder of her tattered jacket.

Other figures, clad all in black, joined them in the hall, and surrounded them in a ring. They had assault rifles and masks and dark glasses. Norman tried to get to his pocket, but before he could a sharp force at the back of his knees knocked him to the ground. Melissa was yelling. Her weapon had been removed, and her arm hung limply at her side dripping crimson red onto the floor.

Someone was grabbing her, tearing her away. Norman could make out what she was screaming now. It was his name, repeated over and over in the strange cacophony of silence. All he could see was the thick carpet and a slant of silver light falling in through the door. He tried to get up but that same force pushed him down again, shoved his shoulders to the floor and delivered a stern blow to the back of his head. Melissa was being led away. Her strained voice got quieter and quieter in the taut air. He wrestled to get free and suddenly found that he could stumble to his feet. He glanced around him many times, his shuddering brain trying in vain to comprehend. Everything was dark again. There were no figures in the hallway. He ran to the door, but there was nobody there. His car was still in the driveway. The street was still and deserted.

Norman turned back. Nothing in the hallway appeared to have been touched. It would have been impossible to tell they had ever been there, save for the puddle of blood seeping slowly into the carpet.

He felt his pockets. His glasses and vial of Triptocaine were untouched. Even his gun remained, cold and guilty, by his side.

The dark hallway trailed away from him, long and unknowable. The wide empty silence stretched around and above and all about him. He was utterly alone.


	16. Euphoria

Her boss had cornered her in the one section of the long corridor with a flickering fluorescent light. She had been expecting it, but wished he could have chosen somewhere that made her feel more at ease.

"I've had the full go-ahead, Donahue," he started by way of greeting. "You're due to be posted out next week."

Melissa nodded.

"Now remember: don't let him convince you. He's delusional and confused. So no matter what he says, don't believe it. You're just there to gather information."

"Of course, sir."

"This is an important assignment, Donahue. All the way from Deputy Director Warren. I'm not saying it'll be easy. But if you do well, we won't forget it soon."

"I understand, sir."

"Excellent. Best of luck, Special Agent Donahue."

As he made to leave, she stopped him with her arm. "Actually – one more thing, sir."

He looked down at her. "Donahue?"

"I don't want to speak out of place. I wonder, if I complete my assignment satisfactorily, I could ask the Bureau for a small favour." She forced herself to maintain eye contact. "You might remember sir, some years ago my father was a Special Agent here. I've always wanted to be allowed access to his final case files, but they've always been classified. You know, for some closure about his death. He died on duty and we were never told much. Well, sir... I was hoping."

He smiled. It was a hard smile, not without kindness, but with a firm edge hidden in the eyes. "I can't promise anything. But I'll do my best, Donahue."

.

.

.

She was wearing a yellow dress. The sky was so blue it made his eyes ache in a strangely pleasurable way. He couldn't stop smiling.

"Come on, slowpoke!" she yelled.

He followed the sunny sound of her voice. They were in a field full of buttercups and periwinkles and tall grass. Red Admiral butterflies wafted past him as he walked, caressing his skin with satin wings then moving on.

Everything was a perfect picture, like a snowglobe but in reverse.

As he reached the crest of a small mound he could see the landscape below them spreading out and away, lush and verdant, into hundreds more happy meadows. A small village was half-hidden in the hills to their left. Norman couldn't see a single cloud in the sky.

She was waving to him under the shade of a young sycamore tree. It was tall and wide with thin branches: it had plenty more growing to do, and plenty of space to do it in. But it had made a good effort with this year's leaves, and there was a dappled yet cool blanket of cover in which to sit and rest from the intensity of the sun.

Walking closer, Norman could see that she had nestled herself in the twisted trunk of the tree, and was sitting on a large looping root emerging from the dry soil. She gestured at him to do the same.

He joined her in the blessed shade, the sweat already cooling on his skin, and the smell of sweet summer grass filled his head.

They gazed out at the scene rolling beneath them, at sparkling streams and patchwork fields. The land seemed to stretch on to forever. At the top of the sky the sun blazed over everything like a seraph. There was a bird calling lazily from somewhere far away. It was a fantasy of a summer's day that was laid out at their feet, and all they could do was soak it in. Norman couldn't have dreamed anything more idyllic.

After some moments had passed in a pleasant cascade, he looked over at the woman sitting beside him. Etched onto her face were memories of a life very different from this one. For now she seemed at peace. She was humming and twirling a long piece of grass in her fingers. He imagined she could blend into the scenery at any moment.

Norman wondered who would speak first. Eventually he realised it would have to be him.

"I wish we could stay here forever," he confessed.

"I know," she said. She turned to look at him and her eyes were honey. In her voice was something of the inevitable autumn to come.

He reached out to take her hand. She grasped his fingers in hers and they felt warm and cool at the same time. He looked carefully over her then: took in her gentle face, her auburn hair, the promise of her body beneath the dress, and those piercing yellow eyes.

He felt his voice constrict in his throat. "It's always been you, Melissa," he said.

She smiled. "Has it? Or has it been the idea of me?"

A flash through his mind of other women, other dreams, other futures.

He grappled with an answer, but no answer came. Instead, ashamed, he looked back over the valley that rolled on below them. The heat seemed too much now, and the sun was darker but somehow brighter. Norman knew he was still holding Melissa's hand but it he could no longer sense her fingers. Everything was beginning to feel numb, like he was only a disconnected cell in a confused system. When he blinked the streams were no longer sparkling and the fields were no longer green, as if a sudden squall had swept over the hills towards them. But the sky was still clear. The bright view became flat and dull though he knew, somehow, the sun was still watching over them. He had one last moment to look into her eyes. Then it all flickered once, twice, and was wiped away into nothing.

The glasses had come off.

He was sitting on a picnic table in a wintry Pershing Park, ARI grasped in his sweaty fingers, the memory of Melissa still fading in his head.

.

.

.

The real Melissa Donahue was alive and well, mere metres away, deep in the bowels of the FBI HQ.

She sat at one end of a long stainless steel table, in the centre of a room lit by shadows. Her left arm was wrapped to her chest in a sling that seemed blindingly white in the dim surroundings. Sat opposite her at the table were three figures, all wearing dark suits.

"Well, Ms Donahue. I do apologise about the injury," began a deep voice belonging to the largest suit. "Things were getting out of hand. We had to bring you in. You understand." He smiled and raised his head from the files in front of him. Even behind the hood of shadows blanketing the end of the table it was recognisably Roland Warren, Deputy Director of the FBI, and even in this situation Melissa felt an angry flush of aggravation at the idea that they had been so close, so achingly close, to the truth. "A pleasure to finally meet you, by the way."

Melissa shifted ever so slightly in her seat. "With respect, sir, I'm tired and my arm hurts." Her voice was low and gravelly. It sounded like just speaking was a great endeavour. "My assignment's over. I did everything you asked. I'd appreciate if I could have your word now on the favour I was promised."

"The assignment was a failure," Warren interjected brightly. When he spoke the men at either side of him shrunk back into their seats, like they knew something Melissa did not. She looked at them for the first time and realised that she recognised them too: Sebastian Hyde on the left and Gregory Welles on the right, both of them from Norman's secret video. "You were instructed to expose Special Agent Jayden's drug addiction and provide evidence against him, not encourage his wild fantasies. Melissa, we know you helped him. What's worse, we know you led him right to my house." The Deputy Director sighed and peered down at her with the most condescending facial expression she had ever seen. "You betrayed us, Ms Donahue. You betrayed  _me_."

Melissa's good hand hung down at her side, balled into a quivering fist.

"I don't know what you imagined would happen," continued Warren. "Of course we cannot fulfil your request after what you've done. Why, it would be like rewarding you. You  _do_  know what we do to Special Agents who fail us."

"Me fail you!" Melissa breathed incredulously. She did not think they had heard her, or if they did they did not acknowledge it.

Welles, to the left of the table, crossed his hands and took the opportunity to speak. "I'm surprised at you, Donahue," he said. "I personally picked you out for this assignment. You promised your superior you wouldn't be swayed by Agent Jayden, no matter what he might say."

She took a deep breath to steady her shaking hand and continued to stare straight on, into the darkness above all of their heads. "I wasn't swayed, sir. I got the evidence you wanted, but like the Deputy Director said... things started getting out of hand. With respect, I did the best I could."

At the head of the table, Warren smiled. "Oh come now Melissa, enough of the games. You knew from the start that you couldn't fool us. If there's nothing you'll tell us about what Jayden thinks he knows then we have nothing left to talk about."

"Please sir, I was promised –"

"Ms Donahue, I will not bargain with those who have turned against the FBI."

Her tongue weighed heavy in her mouth, like all the lies she had swallowed in the past week. "How  _dare_  you?" she hissed. "After all you've done? Did you think I was stupid? Did you think I wouldn't work it out?"

Warren blinked once. "We didn't think you'd fall for his lunacy, no."

Hyde began to say something about poor psychoanalysis and behavioural profiling, but Melissa was already banging her good fist on the table to drown him out. "Cut the act please! I  _know_  everything. He was getting out of control, so you decided to rein him in by accusing him of possession of a drug  _you_  gave to him! How many ARI test subjects have you done this to already? It'd be ingenious if it wasn't so fucking sickening."

"Surely you understand that some things we do here are in the name of the greater good."

"There is no greater good in what you have done," Agent Donahue spat. "Only misery and lies. You bastards will do what you will, but at least tell me the truth first."

"I'm afraid," said Warren slowly, "that will not be happening."

Melissa jumped to her feet and kicked her chair backwards, steadying herself on the table with her right hand. "You can't keep him from me!" Two well-trained guards clad in FBI uniforms materialised from the shadows on either side of her, but Warren waved them away.

"Melissa, listen to yourself. You've been drawn in by the ramblings of a very confused, and very damaged, mind. There's nothing to  _keep_."

She was shaking her head, although her eyes remained fixed on Warren's. "I can't believe it. I can't believe it goes this deep. All these years... Jesus fucking Christ!" Her eyes rolled to the ceiling and the ball of her hand hit the table in futility. "And you lied to  _all of us_? Even when he died, we didn't deserve the truth even then? Even when his own daughter came to serve you too - even then?"

For the first time, Warren looked pained. "I knew your father, Melissa. He was an exemplary Special Agent and a very good man."

"Don't say another word!" Her throat was dry and her eyes were sore. "Don't tell me. I already know. I know what you did to him, what you made him become. I've seen it firsthand for Christ's sake. God _damn_  it."

She shook her head, trying her very hardest to keep her voice from breaking. "I know - I know my father was part of the program. I just can't believe you didn't think I would join all the dots. Was he one of the first? Did he agree to any of it?"

No answer came. Suddenly two arms took a hold of her roughly from behind, and pinned her free hand to her side. Melissa yelled and tried to shake herself loose, but the grip was too firm. Instead she pulled her head upwards with all the dignity she could muster, and stared Warren straight in the eye.

"You're disgusting. Everything you do here is despicable, everything you stand for. You lied to me and you made me lie. You made me betray an innocent man, a man better than any one of you and every single one of your cronies in the fucking FBI. I want nothing to do with it anymore."

Warren watched her steadily for a moment, and then he began to laugh, a low, sombre, chilling sound.

"Oh, Melissa," he said. "I see it now. You fell for him, didn't you? Or at least, the idea of him. So similar to your father..." He shook his head and smiled. "Well, don't delude yourself. You never meant anything to him, not really. Anything you think you shared was only as real to him as the visions in his glasses. You were just an illusion, a pretty distraction, nothing more. He just wanted the idea of you too, the pure  _image_  of you. And that's all you were meant to be. After all Melissa, there was a reason we chose you for this particular task."

She was shaking. Her vision was blurred. Around her the room was a haze of grey apparitions and dark shadows, and she was aware of her arm aching where she was being held. She was trapped in this room, in this building, in this city, in this suit. She could feel her life spiralling away from her as she remained stuck here, anchored here, locked in with her regrets and her history.

And in her mind swam the ghosts of memories past, of her father getting another promotion to Lieutenant, and then joining the FBI, of all the pride she felt, and then the deep thick sadness over every waking moment as he grew sicker and sicker, seemingly inexplicably, and the doctor could do nothing, and then one day he was just gone – forever – and she thought maybe mom was lying to her when she said he wasn't dead, but she seemed to believe it so. He disappeared into the FBI like a dream. So he was never really dead, not to them, not to her and her mother and her younger brother. Her younger brother, who ran away with the pain and the silence that crept into that house like a disease, and the sister who stayed behind to look after their ailing mother who simply passed away with grief within a year or two. And the father whose absence, so great and heavy, lingered like a ghost in that family. Could she recall the bloodshot veins in his eyes, the shaking of addiction in his thin fingers? So maybe he had never really died, maybe he had lived on somewhere in these gleaming corridors, like a science project gone wrong, and that was why the phantom had been haunting them all these long years. And maybe why she had been drawn here too, to the mystery she had ached her whole life to solve. Her cheeks were wet with tears. Vaguely she heard Warren order for her to be taken away, as if from a great distance.

The worst thing was that she had seen now what her father must have become. She had seen it happen before her very eyes, and she had played her own terrible part in bringing down that poor, suffering man who had wanted only to make the world a better place one case at a time. Her father or Norman Jayden? Maybe Warren was right. Maybe they were the same in her mind.

This was her last coherent thought as she was dragged backwards through thick grey doors into the endless corridors beyond.

.

.

.

Norman sat alone at a bench in the park, in the same spot where he sat with Melissa on the first day they met.

The trees were bare skeletons now, and a lining of decomposing russet leaves littered the ground. Pershing Park looked almost entirely grey. But against a backdrop of low clouds the setting sun was breaking out into an ecstasy of colour, like it had chosen this exact moment to rebel gloriously against the status quo. The promise of dusk drew close.

The lonely agent shivered. There was a chill hanging in the air. It made him draw a breath and pull his jacket closer.

He still had the black sunglasses clasped in his palm, and their summonings still encircled his mind. This was all he had now. Phantoms and memories. They had taken her somewhere, he didn't know where. And they hadn't even said a word. They'd left him languishing in this miserable silence. It was like it had never happened, she had never existed, she and Raine and all of it was just a vibrant figment of his imagination. But he didn't think so somehow. He thought he could tell now between the hallucinations in his head and those that walked the earth fully formed.

He fished into his pocket with his other hand, pulled out the small cold vial of blue and held it between his fingers. With an object in each hand resting on the surface of the wooden picnic table he looked like a second-rate Lady Justice. In fact, his arms felt shackled. He felt weighed down by heavy inevitability.

Norman looked up. The sun was splitting in half like a yolk against the land. It was an achingly beautiful sunset, a sunset to break your heart. Pinks and purples and oranges and gold. Norman had been told as a child never to look at the sun, but in this moment it was so exquisitely alluring his eyes couldn't help but stare. He could not see it moving but when he looked away then back again it had shifted in the sky and he knew it was slipping through his fingers.

"Please don't leave me," he said.

The clouds grew shadowy and bittersweet as the sun dissolved, their once vibrant colours melting to shades of grey. Conforming. Acquiescing. Giving in. At last all that remained of its blinding light was a thin sliver, and then it shimmered one last time at him and was gone behind the silhouette of the land. The world was full of blue. The sky dimmed forlornly and Norman knew he could no longer stop the night from coming.

He allowed himself to shed a farewell of shameful tears.

He remembered that he hadn't known her age, or her middle name, and had never told her how sunlight flooded into the valley of his mind when he was with her. He had treated her like a dream and a dream she had become. For a few moments he thought the misery would overcome him.

Then, slowly, like the kaleidoscope colours of the sky, it passed.

Once it was over, his head felt clearer. As his vision returned he looked from palm to palm in the growing dusk, from ARI to Triptocaine, from sweet intensity to sudden relief, from black to blue and back again. In the darkening light it became harder to tell the difference between them. He almost felt like something was happening to him, like there was an unexpected opening in the fabric of life, like something pure and good had blossomed from this terrible sadness, like he had been given a choice laid out in front of him. Pick one or both or neither.

Norman could feel the shadow of the FBI's headquarters hanging over him. He knew without having to look over his shoulder that there was a dark man in a dark suit watching over him from a secluded corner of the park. He knew he, or one of his indistinguishable brethren, had been following him ever since they took Melissa. He knew they might follow him forever now. He also knew that, somewhere deep inside, in a place the FBI could not find, was a part of himself like a hard stubborn core, like the centre of a burning star, a part of him that had shown itself this last week and had opened to Melissa in the rain and Raine in a parking lot.

He prayed he was strong enough to choose. He prayed the centre kept burning.

As the final wisp of light left the earth Norman closed both hands, like shutting the final chapter in a heavy book, and for a brief instant truly knew what it was to feel euphoria.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to say thank you to every one of you who has taken the time to read, comment, favourite, or support me in any way. The drive not to let you down is what has helped me finish this fanfic over six years (!) since I started, and I'm just sorry it's taken that long. Thank you for continuing to read the adventures of Nahman I dream up in my head. You are all the sustaining life behind this story and I hope you've had as much fun as I have.
> 
> All that's left to say is thank you again.


End file.
